aia 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


"PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM 


AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 


MARGARET    SUTTON    BRISCOE 


NEW   YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND   COMPANY 
1892 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved. 


SJnttorrsttg  Press; 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  US. A 


'ttf 


TO 

fflg  fffiiotfjer  anD  Closest  JFrtenfi: 

WHO   IS   IDENTIFIED  WITH   EVERY   LINE   IN   THIS   BOOK, 
WHICH   I   DEDICATE   TO  HER. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

I.  "  PERCHANCE   TO  DREAM " 3 

II.  How  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA 29 

III.  A  CHIP 51 

IV.  THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH 63 

V.  A  TEA-LEAF 85 

VI.  NED 95 

VII.  "THROUGH   A  GLASS,  DARKLY" 121 

VIII.  THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE ...  133 

IX.  FIFTEEN  COUNTY  ROCK 159 

X.  A  LEGACY ,    ...  169 

XI.  THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT ,231 

XII.  Miss  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY 245 

XIII.  "DIE,   WHICH  I  WONT"  2?1 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTE. 


volume  of  stories,  put  forth  with  diffidence  and 
in  modesty  of  spirit,  stands  in  no  need  of  an  intro 
duction.  A  new  writer  can  be  introduced  only  by  her 
work.  It  is  entirely  natural,  however,  that  Miss  BRISCOE 
should  desire  to  interpose  the  word  of  a  friend  between 
herself  and  a  public  to  whom  she  speaks  for  the  first 
time.  Fortunately  that  public  is  not  the  many- headed 
monster  which  it  has  sometimes  been  represented ;  it  is, 
rather,  a  very  well-disposed  public,  eager  to  be  interested 
and  ready  to  welcome  every  new-comer  who  cares  more 
for  excellence  than  for  reputation.  The  name  on  the 
titlepage  of  this  volume  is  not  entirely  unfamiliar,  since 
it  has  appeared  in  the  pages  of  the  "  Christian  Union," 
"Harper's  Young  People,"  "The  Overland  Monthly," 
and  other  periodicals. 

HAMILTON  W.  MABIE. 

NOTE.  —  Special  acknowledgment  is  made  to  Messrs.  HARPER  & 
BROTHERS  for  their  permission  to  reprint,  from  their  "  Young 
People,"  the  story,  "Die,  Which  I  Wont." 


"PERCHANCE    TO    DREAM.' 


PERCHANCE  TO   DREAM." 


"OPREAD  yourself  out,  Charles,"  said  Mr.  Gordon; 
^  "  fill  up  as  many  seats  as  you  can.  Your  aunt 
thinks  it  disloyal  to  the  children  to  take  any  leaves  out 
of  the  table,  —  so  1  sit  at  one  end  of  the  deserted  board, 
and  she  at  the  other.  We  can  bow  to  each  other,  and 
call  something  across  occasionally." 

"You  must  come  often  and  help  us  out,  you  see, 
Charles,"  said  Mrs.  Gordon,  smiling,  and  turning  her  still 
beautiful  face  toward  her  nephew.  "  Albert,  you  should 
not  laugh  at  your  wife's  sentiment." 

Mr.  Gordon  was  an  elderly  man,  high-featured  and  dis 
tinguished-looking,  with  clear,  brown  eyes  and  clean,  olive 
skin,  and  a  soldier-like  alertness  of  bearing.  His  white 
hair,  which  rioted  over  his  head  in  crisp  curls,  lent  a  fur 
ther  air  of  vigour  to  his  appearance. 

There  was  a  sense  of  rest  and  repose  about  his  uncle's 
home  which  always  soothed  Charles  Gordon.  His  pres 
ence  there  was  no  unusual  event,  and  his  place  at  table 
was  always  set,  although  he  had  occupied  it  but  little  of 
late.  He  was  strikingly  like  his  uncle  in  feature.  As 
his  self-control  relaxed  somewhat  in  this  congenial  atmos 
phere,  a  strained  expression  of  underlying  pain  now  and 


4  "  PERCHANCE   TO   DREAM." 

again  crossed  his  face,  and  the  look  of  age  which  then 
accompanied  it  brought  out  this  resemblance  more 
strongly. 

The  servant  was  filling  the  wine-glasses  by  the  three 
plates,  and  Mr.  Gordon  raised  his  to  his  lips.  As 
Charles  bent  forward  and  closed  his  forefinger  and 
thumb  about  the  stem  of  his  glass,  there  was  a  deliber 
ate  air  of  defiance  in  his  action,  simple  as  it  was.  When 
he  set  down  his  empty  glass,  he  looked  steadily  across 
the  table  at  his  uncle;  the  same  defiant  spirit  showed 
in  his  eyes,  and  something  not  unlike  anger  tinged  his 
expression. 

Mr.  Gordon  appeared  unconscious  of  all  this,  but  a 
few  moments  later  he  motioned  to  the  servant,  who  re 
filled  the  glass.  Charles  watched  him  do  so,  yet  did  not 
immediately  touch  the  contents ;  his  attitude  relaxed. 
There  was  never  anything  which  jarred  upon  him 
here.  There  was  no  place  just  like  it ;  nothing  was 
ever  hurried.  Dinner  meant  a  pleasant  meeting  to  be 
lingered  over,  while  the  day's  gleanings  of  interest 
were  spread  out  on  the  board ;  and  none  of  the  wonted 
customs  were  dropped  with  the  dropping  away  of  the 
younger  branches. 

Mrs.  Gordon  rose  as  usual  after  dinner,  and  left  her 
husband  with  his  nephew,  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to 
leave  him  with  his  sons.  Charles  opened  the  door  for 
her;  and  as  she  passed  him  she  laid  her  hand  lingeringly 
on  his  shoulder,  with  a  kind  smile.  She  was  not  a  de 
monstrative  woman,  although  a  tender  one ;  Charles  was 
surprised  and  touched  by  the  caress.  He  walked  back 
to  the  table,  and  sat  down  thoughtfully,  —  his  legs 
stretched  out  before  him,  his  hands  thrust  in  his  trousers' 


"PERCHANCE   TO  DREAM."  5 

pockets;  his  face  in  repose  was  not  happy,  and  older 
than  his  years  warranted. 

Mr.  Gordon  had  drawn  his  chair  back  also;  he  was 
sitting  with  one  arm  resting  on  the  table,  his  eyes  fastened 
on  the  young  man's  face. 

"  You  are  very  like  me,  Charles,"  he  said ;  "  more  so 
than  any  of  my  own  sons." 

Charles  flushed,  as  he  looked  up. 

"  You  could  have  said  nothing  which  would  have  given 
me  more  pleasure,"  he  answered  quickly. 

There  was  an  unaffected  genuineness  in  his  voice,  and 
the  boyishness  of  his  smile  softened  his  face  wonderfully. 

"It  is  a  great  pity  that  your  own  father  died  when  he 
did,"  Mr.  Gordon  went  on,  —  "a  pity  for  both  you  and 
your  mother." 

The  gentleness  which  had  come  to  Charles  Gordon's 
face  vanished. 

"  I  saw  my  mother's  carriage  leave  the  door  as  I  came 
in,"  he  said  harshly  ;  "  she  has  you  to  come  to  with  com 
plaints  in  her  trials." 

"  Yes,  she  has  me  to  come  to ;  but  it  is  not  quite  the 
same,  Charles." 

"No,"  answered  Charles;  "it  is  not  quite  the  same." 

He  took  his  hand  from  his  pocket,  and  raised  his  glass 
to  his  lips.  Across  the  rim  his  eyes  were  miserable, 
angry,  and  defiant. 

Mr.  Gordon's  eyes  met  them  calmly.  When  the 
glass  was  set  down  empty,  he  pushed  the  bottle  of  wine 
across  the  table  in  silence.  Charles  lifted  it;  but  his 
fingers  trembled  a  little  so  that  the  glass  overflowed. 
He  muttered  an  apology,  thrusting  his  hand  again  into 
his  pocket,  and  staring  moodily  before  him. 


6  "PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM." 

"  You  are  not  only  like  me  in  feature  and  disposi 
tion,"  said  Mr.  Gordon,  "but  your  temptations  were 
mine,  also.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  I  am  living  over  my 
youth  in  yours ;  it  has  drawn  you  very  closely  to  me,  my 
boy." 

Charles  looked  across  the  corner  of  the  table  at  his 
uncle,  his  brows  drawn  together  in  a  frown  of  surprise. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Mr.  Gordon,  reflectively ; 
"  there  may  be  a  difference  in  one  way.  I  had  no  excuse 
whatever;  perhaps  you  have." 

A  dark  flush  swept  over  the  younger  man's  face ;  he 
shrank  for  a  moment,  as  if  a  sensitive  wound  had  been 
touched,  then  drew  himself  up  slightly  and  raised  his  head, 
waiting. 

Mr.  Gordon  was  tipping  his  empty  glass  up  and  down, 
watching  the  little  rivulets  formed  by  the  few  remaining 
drops  as  they  ran  together. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  he  repeated ;  he  glanced  up  sud 
denly,  with  a  direct  question.  "  Has  any  one  ever  told 
you  how  nearly  I  made  a  miserable  wreck  of  my 
life  ? " 

Charles  had  no  need  to  answer ;  the  incredulous 
wonder  which  he  knew  his  face  must  express,  seemed 
answer  sufficient. 

"I  was  not  thoroughly  brutish,  —  or  I  thought  that  I 
was  not,  —  not  continuously  so,  at  all  events ;  but  I  ate  of 
the  husks  which  swine  do  eat,  and  found  them  palatable." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

Charles  closed  his  eyes,  and  opened  them  again ;  there 
were  throbbing  pulses  in  his  head.  His  old  landmarks 
seemed  confused  or  gone;  he  tried  to  recollect  how  he 
had  spent  the  hours  before  ringing  his  uncle's  door- 


"PERCHANCE  TO   DREAM."  7 

bell,  and  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  a  right  to  be  there 
at  his  aunt's  table.  He  wished  his  brain  were  a  little 
less  benumbed,  that  he  might  know.  The  uncertainty 
troubled  him ;  but  he  thought  he  had  not  come  to  that 
yet  in  his  efforts  to  forget  a  form  and  face  and  voice 
which  would  not  be  forgotten.  He  felt  that  he  had 
now  forfeited  even  the  right  to  this  memory ;  yet  he 
began  living  over  again,  for  the  thousandth  time,  that 
past  with  its  dear  associations. 

"  Have  you  ever  noticed  the  peculiar  tenderness  and 
peace  in  your  aunt's  face,  Charles  ? "  Mr.  Gordon  was 
saying. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Charles,  rousing ;  "  but  I  have 
always  thought  her  the  most  beautiful  woman  I  ever 
saw." 

"  She  was  considered  wonderfully  beautiful  when  I 
married  her ;  she  had  just  those  same  cameo-like  features 
and  the  superb  carriage  of  the  head  which  she  has  now. 
But  there  was  none  of  that  beauty  of  expression  which 
is  now  hers;  my  wife  was  the  essence  of  high  breeding 
and  self-control.  I  thought  that  I  was  in  love  with  her,  — 
and  I  was,  in  a  way.  To-day,  as  I  sit  at  the  head  of  my 
table  and  look  down  its  length  at  her,  I  can  laugh  at  the 
idea  under  my  gray  hairs ;  I  was  proud  of  her.  It  was  in 
my  power  to  adorn  her  beauty  beautifully;  and  I  liked 
to  enter  a  room  with  her  on  my  arm,  and  see  heads  turn, 
and  eyes  follow.  That  faultless  regularity  of  feature, 
the  statue-like  repose  which  I  never  saw  ruffled,  satisfied 
me  perfectly  ;  if  there  were  a  flesh-and-blood  woman 
beneath,  I  never  sought  to  wake  her. 

"  Once,  shortly  after  our  marria'ge,  my  wife  ventured 
a  slight  remonstrance  —  but  that  is  too  strong  a  word  — 


8  "  PERCHANCE   TO   DREAM." 

as  to  my  habits  of  life.  I  cut  her  short  on  the  moment. 
I  was  only  about  your  age.  After  that  there  was  but 
a  prouder  lifting  of  the  head,  and  a  drooping  of  the 
eyelids  to  tell  me  that  she  even  had  knowledge  of  what 
occurred  but  too  often. 

"  James  Irwin,  my  wife's  elder  brother,  was  living  with 
us  then,  you  know.  But  I  forget,  —  you  know  nothing 
about  it;  even  my  children  know  very  little. 

"  Somehow  I  am  moved  to  open  it  all  to-night,  and  lay 
it  before  you,  Charles,  even  to  that  story  of  my  inner  life 
which  no  one  in  this  world  knows,  —  not  even  my  wife, 
wholly,  although  she  knows  in  part.  Do  I  bore  you  ? 
Shall  I  go  on  ?  " 

Charles  Gordon,  sitting  upright  and  motionless  in  his 
chair,  stared  at  his  uncle,  his  eyes  wide  open  and  full  of 
perplexity.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  press 
ing  his  hot  temples. 

"  Can  you  ask  me  ? "  he  replied  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  rather  affected  the  society  of  older  men,"  Mr. 
Gordon  went  on  slowly.  "  There  was  one  circle  in  which 
I  especially  delighted,  —  a  club  formed  of  semi -literary, 
semi-artistic  men,  Bohemian  to  the  core,  and  know 
ing  no  law  save  that  laid  down  by  the  rules  of  art  or 
literature.  I  was  the  only  young  man  admitted  among 
them,  and  I  was  flattered  beyond  measure  at  the 
distinction. 

"There  was  one  in  this  circle  who  interested  me  deeply, 
—  no  one  knew  where  he  came  from,  or  what  was  his 
position  in  life.  There  were  some  who  insisted  that  his 
features  were  familiar  to  them ;  but  they  were  not  able  to 
place  him  further,  and  it  was  not  well  to  ask  questions  in 
that  company.  He  talked  but  little,  and  ate  his  husks 


"  PERCHANCE   TO  DREAM."  9 

with  a  curious  epicurean  deliberation ;  there  was  not  the 
flavour  of  a  shred  which  escaped  him. 

"  At  that  time  I  think  my  ruling  passion  was  a  burn 
ing,  illegitimate  curiosity :  I  would  grasp  all  the  secrets 
of  life;  I  desired  to  see,  to  hear,  to  smell,  to  taste,  to 
feel,  all  that  body  and  mind  could  compass. 

"  There  was  something  in  this  man  which  fascinated 
and  eluded  me ;  not  that  he  avoided  me,  —  rather  other 
wise, —  but  I  felt  baffled  when  with  him.  A  conviction 
forced  itself  upon  me  that  he  knew  something  which  I 
had  not  yet  learned.  His  was  a  curious  face, — sealed 
like  a  mask,  totally  devoid  of  feeling ;  the  eyelids 
generally  half -closed,  and  the  eyes  beneath  opaque  and 
expressionless. 

"  One  evening,  when  we  two  sat  talking  together  in 
a  remote  corner  of  the  club-room,  he  asked  me  abruptly, 
how  I  —  a  mere  youth,  with  the  world  a  ball  at  my 
feet  —  had  yet  managed  to  attain  that  glorious  unrest 
which  was  mine  ?  1  looked  up,  nettled  by  the  sneer  in 
his  voice  rather  than  his  words.  We  were  sitting  with 
the  comer  of  the  table  between  us,  —  very  much  as  you 
and  I  are  sitting  now ;  he  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
looking  at  me  from  under  his  eyelids,  with  a  half- 
mocking  smile  on  his  lips. 

"  '  Well-looking,'  he  went  on,  '  better  married,  enough 
brains,  and  a  plethora  of  money, — -what  more  do  you 
want  ? ' 

" '  That  which  you  know,'  I  replied  curtly. 

"  My  companion  quite  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment, 
and  smiled  with  an  enjoyment  infinitely  irritating. 

"'That  is  the  proper  spirit,'  he  began;  then  with  a 
sudden  change,  '  but  let  Time  fiddle  while  we  dance.' 


10  "  PERCHANCE   TO   DREAM." 

"  He  tossed  off  the  wine  in  his  glass  with  an  exag 
gerated  gesture,  then  refilled  my  glass  and  his  own. 

"  '  Let  us  drink  to  those  provident  ancestors  who  have 
made  your  career  possible,'  he  said. 

"  1  checked  him,  laughing,  — 

"  '  No ;  if  they  are  resting  peacefully,  let  sleeping  dogs 
lie.  It  was  through  the  Puritan  ancestor  that  the  shekels 
came.' 

"  My  companion  set  his  glass  down  and  laughed ;  with 
him  there  was  no  sound,  yet  it  was  laughter. 

"  '  Who  can  say  that  the  old  psalm-singer  is  not  now 
standing  by,'  he  said,  'tearing  his  ghostly  hair,  and 
wringing  his  vaporous  hands  over  the  use  or  abuse  of  his 
hoarded  gold?  Peace  to  his  ashes!  May  he  never 
walk ! ' 

" '  Amen,'  1  replied.  '  But  did  you  never  consider 
what  a  privilege  it  might  be  to  walk, — to  float  through 
your  world,  a  disembodied  spirit,  and  hear  what  your 
friends  said  of  you,  yourself  unseen  ? ' 

"  My  companion  leaned  across  the  table  and  touched 
my  arm. 

"  *  No ;  but  listen.  Did  you  never  consider  what  a 
privilege  it  might  be  to  roam  through  your  world 
seeing  and  hearing  all  that  you  see  and  hear,  without 
fully  understanding  when  you  are  —  what  shall  I  term 
it?  —  well,  a  dise inspirited  body?  We  will  call  it  so 
for  euphony.' 

"  I  looked  at  him  questioningly,  but  half  comprehending. 

" '  To  mingle  with  one's  boon  companions,"  he  went 
on,  '  and  learn  what  they  said  and  did,  and  what  you 
yourself  said  and  did  with  accuracy.  Have  you  never 
felt  the  desire  to  know  —  never  wished  to  account  for 


"PERCHANCE   TO   DREAM."  11 

blank  hours,  which  must,  from  their  very  nature,  have 
been  full  of  experience  ? ' 

'"I  never  thought  of  that,'  I  answered. 

" '  Think  now,'  replied  my  companion,  smiling. 

"1  thought,  and  with  the  thinking  and  the  numer 
ous  possibilities  which  opened,  the  desire  was  born 
strongly. 

" '  It  would  be  profoundly  interesting,'  I  said  at  last ; 
'but,  alas,  impossible.  The  man  is  not  born  who  can 
keep  his  reason  and  lose  it  too.' 

"  I  seemed  to  catch,  for  the  fraction  of  a  moment,  a 
gleam  of  light  from  behind  the  opaque  pupils;  the 
same  irritating  conviction  that  this  man  had  a  knowledge 
which  was  not  mine,  confronted  me. 

"'One  could  assume  to  have  lost  his  reason,'  he 
answered  slowly.  '  The  effect  on  outsiders  would  be  the 
same ;  and  if  he  be  imaginative,  he  might  even  deceive 
himself — but  then  —  no  man  would  carry  out  the  ex 
periment  fairly.' 

" '  What  would  you  call  carrying  it  out  fairly  ? '  1 
asked. 

" '  Playing  the  part  to  the  bitter  end,  should  the  ex 
periment  by  chance  grow  bitter.  No ;  men  are  cowards, 
it  would  be  dropped.' 

"  'That  must  depend  on  the  man.  Do  you  think  there 
are  none  brave  enough  to  look  the  immediate  conse 
quences  of  their  own  acts  in  the  face  when  they  prove 
painful ? ' 

" '  That,'  answered  my  companion,  coolly,  '  is  Hell. 
No  man  will  choose  to  cross  a  corner  of  his  Gehenna 
before  his  time  is  ripe  ;  be  sure  of  that.' 

"The  only  expression  I  had  ever  seen  on  his  face 


12  "PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM." 

came  there  as  he  spoke :  it  filled  with  a  cold,  mocking 
scorn. 

'"See  how  even  curiosity  like  yours  grows  cold  as 
the  experiment  seems  possible,'  he  said;  'or  else  your 
courage.' 

"  I  threw  off  the  slight  chill  which  his  words  created. 

"  '  You  are  too  serious,'  I  answered,  laughing.  '  Do 
you  suppose  that  what  I  have  faced  with  Dutch  courage, 
I  cannot  face  with  my  own  ?  What  man  has  done,  man 
can  do;  to-night  1  shall  try  your  experiment.  1  shall 
see  and  hear  all  that  is  to  be  seen  and  heard,  and  1  shall 
come  out  alive  on  the  other  side,  too.' 

"  Again  it  seemed  to  me  that  1  detected  a  quick  light 
behind  the  drooping  eyelids. 

'"Let  us  be  merry  with  the  jocund  grape  in  earnest,' 
he  quoted  lightly. 

"'No,'  1  replied;  'you  should  not  have  mentioned 
a  scheme  so  seductive,  did  you  not  wish  it  tried.  After 
all,  I  shall  only  be  reproducing  yesterday,  or  anticipating 
to-morrow  maybe.  To-night  think  of  me  as  enjoying 
a  new  sensation ;  that  in  itself  is  temptation  sufficient.' 

"'And  if  the  sensations  are  not  all  pleasant?' 

"  '  Is  art  all  pretty  ? '  I  interrupted. 

"  My  companion  rose  and  stood  before  me ;  he  was 
holding  my  wine-glass  in  his  hand.  It  was  full  to  the 
brim,  but  not  a  drop  spilled.  He  looked  down  into  my 
eyes. 

" '  Are  you  in  earnest  ? '  he  asked  scoffingly. 

"  1  felt  a  strange  numbness  creeping  over  me ;  I  was 
conscious  only  of  the  scornful  face  and  the  opaque  eyes 
which  held  mine. 

"  '  Yes,'  I  murmured  hoarsely ;  '  yes.' 


"  PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM."  13 

"  I  felt  the  glass  touch  my  lips ;  a  finger  pressed  my 
brow;  1  swallowed  something  which  burned  like  fire, 
and  then  —  I  started  up  to  see  two  soiled  glasses  on  the 
table  and  an  empty  chair  opposite  mine. 

"  That  I  had  been  the  subject  of  a  mesmerist's  trick 
was  the  first  thought  which  punctured  my  stupefaction. 
My  first  sensation  was  naturally  indignation ;  but  crowd 
ing  out  everything  else,  grew  a  curiosity  keener  than 
any  emotion  1  had  ever  experienced.  To  try  at  once 
that  experiment  which  my  strange  companion  had  sug 
gested  was  the  one  idea  which  possessed  me. 

"  Into  the  hours  which  almost  immediately  followed 
on  my  resolution,  1  shall  not  enter.  You  may  judge  of 
their  nature,  Charles,  partly  by  experience ;  it  is  enough 
to  say  that  my  highest  anticipations  did  not  exceed  the 
reality. 

"I  mounted  the  steps  of  my  own  house  afterwards, 
my  brain  still  rioting  and  reeling  with  all  that  I  had  seen 
and  heard ;  I  was  drunk  with  excitement,  but  with  ex 
citement  only.  I  had  in  those  few  hours  dipped  into 
the  depths  of  the  frailties  and  brutalities  of  human  nature, 
and  seen  it  naked  with  unclouded  eyes ;  I  knew  myself 
and  those  with  whom  1  mingled  as  years  of  an  ordinary 
existence  could  not  have  taught  me. 

"There  had  been  no  time  for  reflection;  all  that  my 
brain  could  hold  had  been  crowded  into  it  for  observa 
tion,  —  a  wild  Walpurgis  night,  which  I  had  entered  Faust- 
like.  I  was  still  half  under  the  spell  of  that  delirium  of 
experience,  when  I  reached  the  library  where  1  found  my 
brother-in-law  sitting  writing ;  it  was  his  habit  to  keep 
early  hours,  and  his  presence  somewhat  surprised  me. 
As  I  entered  the  room,  thoroughly  preoccupied,  my  foot 


14  "  PERCHANCE   TO   DREAM." 

slipped  on  the  smooth  floor,  and  it  was  with  some  diffi 
culty  that  I  recovered  my  balance. 

"  James  Irwin  looked  up,  then  dashed  down  his  pen, 
advancing  toward  me  excitedly. 

"  '  My  God,  is  it  possible!  Again,  and  to-night  of  all 
nights ! ' 

"I  supposed  that  my  stumble  had  deceived  him;  but 
I  would  not  explain.  This  was  the  first  time  that  he  had 
ever  attempted  open  remonstrance,  and  for  the  moment 
I  was  angered  beyond  measure. 

"  Before  any  further  words  were  possible,  there  were 
quick  footsteps  outside,  and  my  wife  entered  the  room 
hastily.  She  was  in  evening  dress ;  there  was  an  unusual 
colour  in  her  cheeks,  an  unusual  animation  in  her  move 
ments.  I  remembered  then  that  I  was  to  have  taken  her 
to  the  ball  from  which  she  was  now  evidently  returning ; 
and  as  1  looked  at  her  I  almost  found  it  in  my  heart  to 
regret  that  1  had  not  been  with  her. 

"  She  ran  past  me  to  her  brother's  side. 

"'He  has  come,  James,'  she  cried.  '  We  stopped  for 
him  at  the  train,  on  the  way  home,  and  1  have  brought 
him  to  you.  Here  he  is.' 

"  The  man,  who  had  followed  her  more  slowly,  now 
came  forward.  He  was  younger  than  Mr.  Irwin,  but  the 
greeting  between  the  two  was  that  of  old  and  valued 
friendship ;  both  were  moved,  and  hid  it  under  a  show  of 
heartiness  and  laughter. 

"  Stella  stood  by,  watching  them  with  shining  eyes. 
Her  look  fell  on  me,  and  the  change  came,  —  a  change 
which  appalled  me.  The  light  died  out  of  her  eyes  with 
the  smile  from  her  lips ;  an  expression  of  unutterable 
anguish  swept  over  her  features,  —  an  agony  so  withering, 


"PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM."  15 

a  shame  so  crushing,  that  I  stood  there,  thrilled  and  spell 
bound,  scarcely  believing  it  the  same  face.  It  was  all  gone 
in  a  moment,  and  in  its  place  was  the  stately  beauty  I 
knew. 

"The  stranger  had  turned  and  looked  toward  me,  half 
hesitating;  Mr.  Irwin  would  not  respond.  I  could  see 
the  swelling  of  her  slender  throat,  as  my  wife  raised  her 
head,  like  a  snow-white  flower  on  its  stem ;  she  laid  her 
hand  lightly  on  my  arm:  — 

" '  And  here  is  my  husband,  also,  Mr.  Alden,'  she 
said ;  '  Albert,  you  have  heard  me  speak  of  James's 
old  friend,  —  and  mine.  We  must  go  to  the  dining- 
room,  now.  I  have  ordered  a  late  supper  for  you,  Mr. 
Alden.' 

"I  sat  at  the  head  of  my  table,  a  haunted  and  bewil 
dered  man,  —  haunted  by  the  agony  of  soul  which  had 
looked  out  at  me  from  my  wife's  eyes,  and  bewildered 
because  I  had  no  comprehension  of  what  could  have 
evoked  that  depth  of  feeling  which  1  did  not  know 
existed  beneath  the  cold  surface.  I  had  seen  what  I 
thought  an  exquisite  statue  changed  to  a  living,  suffer 
ing  woman. 

"  Looking  at  that  stately,  gracious  hostess  sitting  there, 
—  graceful,  coldly  beautiful  as  ever,  —  I  began  to  regard 
the  evidence  of  my  own  eyes  as  a  figment  of  my  over 
heated  brain. 

"  Across  the  room  from  me  a  large  mirror  was  set  in 
the  wall;  the  whole  supper-table  was  reflected  in  it, — a 
framed  picture,  which  caught  my  eye.  The  white  cloth, 
the  twinkling  candles,  and  bright  flowers,  the  shining 
silver  and  glass,  my  wife's  slender  figure,  Mr.  Alden 
bending  toward  her  as  he  spoke,  her  brother's  listening 


16  "  PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM." 

attitude,  and,  —  was  that  myself!  that  being,  flushed  and 
wild-eyed,  a  disordered  vision  of  excitement  ? 

"  I  could  only  account  for  my  appearance  by  supposing 
that  I  had  thrown  myself  into  my  late  part  too  success 
fully  to  cast  aside  the  outward  show  in  a  moment ;  but  as 
1  saw,  an  insane  impulse  —  a  fleeting  impulse  only,  but 
even  so  to  my  lasting  shame  —  tempted  me  to  assume 
voluntarily  that  part  which  I  had  unconsciously  carried 
into  my  home.  If  that  haunting  look  which  I  had  caught 
on  my  wife's  face  were  a  reality,  I  wished  to  be  assured 
of  it.  Every  instinct  repudiated  the  suggestion  as  it  took 
form.  To  carry  it  out  was  as  far  from  my  intention  as 
light  from  darkness,  and  yet,  —  I  was  roused  to  the  con 
sciousness  that  my  voice  was  speaking  words  which  my 
brain  did  not  originate,  which  my  will  did  not  utter, 
and  I  saw  on  my  wife's  face  that  same  agony  of  feature, 
instantly  controlled. 

"  It  was  no  illusion ;  my  heart  leaped  up  in  answer. 
I  thought  that  I  had  sprung  from  my  chair  to  her  side, 
regardless  of  others ;  but  no,  —  I  was  sitting  there  heavily. 
A  pair  of  expressionless,  opaque  eyes  seemed  looking  into 
mine,  a  scornful  face  grew  indistinctly  about  them,  with 
lips  that  mocked  and  spoke  to  me  alone :  'Do  you  for 
get,  or  does  tbe  experiment  grow  bitter  ? ' 

"  A  recollection  of  the  words  I  had  spoken,  and  the 
part  to  which  I  had  vowed  myself  in  the  far  corner  of 
the  club-room,  flashed  through  my  brain.  My  mind 
answered,  not  my  tongue :  '  It  did  not  include  tins.' 

"The  lips  laughed  the  silent  laugh  once  more. 

"  '  Did  it  never  include  this  before  ?  Remember, 
you  are  only  reproducing  yesterday,  or  anticipating 
to-morrow.' 


''PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM."  17 

" ' You  lie,'  I  replied  fiercely, — 'you  lie ! '  and  then  was 
silent,  remembering  my  own  words. 

"  '  Look  at  her ! '  I  cried.  '  No ;  this  I  have  never  seen 
before ! ' 

"  Again  the  lips  sneered. 

"  '  You  have,  but  with  unseeing  eyes.  Has  your 
curiosity  grown  cold,  or  your  courage  ? ' 

"  '  Both,'  I  answered  wildly ;  '  I  will  not  enter  my  Hell 
on  earth.' 

"The  face  was  fading;  only  the  eyes  remained, — 
two  threatening  stars. 

'"//  is  too  late!  You  have  drained  my  glass  to  the 
dregs.' 

"  I  started  back  with  a  shudder  of  horror,  and  woke 
to  the  awful  knowledge  that  my  will  was  bound  in  the 
circle  of  another's.  With  every  sense  sharpened  acutely, 
sensitive  to  a  breath,  a  word,  an  expression,  1  yet  pos 
sessed  no  power  to  control  a  self  before  which  1  grovelled 
in  a  humiliation  unspeakable,  —  a  self  which  I  had  simu 
lated,  and  which  had  not  seemed  loathsome  among  its 
kind. 

"  I  saw  James  Irwin's  hardly  repressed  indignation, 
my  wife's  face  white  and  whiter,  that  high  lovely 
head  still  poised  proudly,  but  the  heavy  eyelids  droop 
ing  lower  and  lower.  I  saw  Alden's  eyes  turning 
toward  her  with  a  yearning  tenderness,  at  which  the 
blood  seethed  in  my  veins.  And  yet  this  self,  —  this 
thing  which  they  thought  me,  and  why  not  ?-•-  was 
singling  him  out  gayly,  eagerly.  I  had  been  told  often 
that  I  was  never  so  brilliant  as  when  freely  drinking; 
that  then  my  brain  worked  with  a  feverish  rapidity,  a 
scintillating  wit,  and  scathing  force ;  it  may  have  been 


18  "PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM." 

so.  I  heard  everything  that  night  through  a  veil  of 
blinding  shame. 

"Loathing  beyond  endurance  this  self  to  whom  it 
meant  madness  to  be  tied,  again  and  again  my  will 
wrestled  with  it,  and  at  each  trial  the  cold,  opaque  eyes 
looked  on,  sucking  the  life  blood  of  my  strength.  Each 
struggle,  each  failure,  left  my  will  weaker,  more  easy  to 
subdue.  The  awful  moments  dragged  by;  there  was 
not  the  shaving  of  the  hundredth  part  of  a  second  of 
consciousness  spared  me. 

"  When  human  endurance  seemed  taxed  beyond  the 
power  of  living,  my  wife  rose  from  the  table,  quietly 
and  without  excuse.  She  gave  no  one  time  to  rise  with 
her ;  yet  at  the  moment  of  her  passing  Alden  on  her  way 
from  the  room,  I  saw  his  face  lifted  in  worshipping  pity 
to  hers,  and  1  longed  to  spring  at  his  exposed  throat,  to 
strangle  expression  out  of  the  face  which  dared  express 
so  much  in  my  very  presence ;  for  with  a  keenness  which 
nothing  escaped,  I  knew  that  she  saw  also  from  beneath 
those  lowered  lids.  She  raised  her  eyes ; .  her  calm  gaze 
met  his  fully;  she  passed  on  and  out  of  the  door.  No 
sign  of  emotion  ruffled  that  marble  mask ;  she  was 
my  wife,  perfectly  loyal  to  the  end, — to  herself,  and  to 
this  creature  she  thought  me. 

"  I  could  have  fallen  at  her  feet ;  I  was  pos 
sessed  with  the  desire  to  follow  her,  to  tell  her  this 
was  all  a  hideous  mistake,  a  part  forced  on  me  by  a 
devil.  With  all  my  frenzied  efforts,  1  found  myself 
still  seated  motionless  listening  to  the  whispers  of  my 
companions. 

"  They  had  cast  aside  pretences  as  the  door  closed.  1 
had  ceased  speaking;  an  intense  languor  and  heaviness 


"PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM."  19 

were  creeping  over  my  body,  but  hearing  and  sight  were 
quickened. 

"  '  You  should  have  warned  me ;  you  should  have 
spared  me  this,'  Alden  was  saying,  his  hand  was  shad 
ing  his  eyes. 

" '  Had  there  been  time,  I  would  have  prevented  your 
coming.  Ah,  my  friend,  if  it  could  have  been  other 
wise  ! ' 

"  Alden  turned  away  with  a  quick  gesture  for  silence. 

"They  spoke  together  in  low  voices,  oblivious  of  me; 
but  I  was  piecing  out  a  conclusion,  —  fitting  a  word  here 
and  a  suggestion  there. 

"  At  last  Alden  rose.  '  I  shall  leave  now,  and  without 
again  seeing  her ;  it  would  only  add  to  her  humilia 
tion.  Tell  her  —  no,  tell  her  nothing  —  what  is  there  to 
say  ? ' 

"  They  passed  from  the  room  into  the  hallway.  Com 
pelled  by  the  force  which  mercilessly  drove  me,  I  staggered 
after  them,  and  found  myself  grasping  the  unwilling  hand 
of  the  man  whose  presence  in  my  house  I  now  believed 
I  had  both  reason  and  right  to  question.  I  was  bidding 
him  a  farewell  odious  in  its  warmth.  Powerless  to  resent 
the  cold  contempt  of  his  civility,  the  fact  that  the  very 
tones  of  his  voice  despised  me,  I  was  yet  urging  his 
stay  with  a  mad  hospitality,  while  longing  for  one  moment 
of  freedom  to  dash  my  fist  into  the  mouth  which  smiled 
contemptuously  in  my  face. 

"As  he  turned  from  me,  1  reeled  back  into  the  folds 
of  a  portiere  which  fell  before  the  door  of  the  little  with- 
drawing-room  off  the  hall.  I  caught  the  swinging  curtain 
and  stood  in  the  open  doorway,  half  hidden,  maddened 
with  disgust,  shuddering  at  this  self  which  wrapped  me 


20  "  PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM." 

like  a  noisome  serpent;  then  came  a  realization  which 
brought  me  the  calmness  of  despair.  This  disgust,  this 
horror,  were  new  to  me  and  to  me  only;  not  new  to 
others, — not  new  to  her. 

"  My  wife  was  coming  down  the  stairway.  The  two 
men  glanced  at  each  other,  and  then  waited  for  her  in 
silence. 

"  She  came  toward  them,  smiling  through  her  pallor. 

"  '  You  would  have  gone  without  seeing  me  ? '  she  said 
with  gentle  reproach;  she  held  out  her  hand  as  she 
spoke. 

"  I  saw  Alden  take  it  reverently  in  his ;  I  heard  his 
voice  break  as  he  bade  her  farewell,  turning  hastily  away. 
The  door  closed,  and  with  its  closing,  her  hands  hid  her 
face. 

" '  You  have  broken  his  heart  among  you,  and  now 
your  own,'  said  James  Irwin's  voice,  bitterly. 

"  I  staggered  into  the  room  behind  me  and  sank  into  a 
chair. 

"  If  my  wife's  heart  were  mine,  I  had  never  questioned ; 
besotted  with  self,  I  had  asked  only  if  I  were  satisfied. 
And  I  had  been  satisfied ;  I  had  not  asked  for  more. 
Why  now  this  indiscribable  sense  of  injury  and  loss  ?  My 
chair  was  turned  with  its  high  back  toward  the  door,  and 
presently  I  heard  her  footsteps  behind  it ;  she  had  entered 
the  room  and  was  coming  forward,  her  eyes  fixed  before 
her,  her  face  speaking  of  infinite  regrets  and  sadness 
to  my  jealous  eyes.  She  paused  with  her  hand  on  the 
back  of  my  chair,  not  seeing  me;  then  she  looked 
down.  Her  hand  caught  the  chair  for  support ;  she 
trembled  and  quivered,  but  not  more  than  I  in  my  tor 
ture  of  inaction.  What  did  I  represent  to  her  at  this 


"PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM."  21 

moment  as  she  looked  down  on  me,  a  mere  soulless 
carcass  to  the  sight  ?  She  was  bending  over  me,  moan 
ing  under  her  breath,— 

"  '  Oh,  my  fallen  idol ! ' 

"  I  held  my  breath  to  hear  her.  '  My  fallen  idol,  for 
those  eyes  of  all  others  to  see  your  feet  of  clay ! ' 

"  Passionate  response  surged  from  my  heart  to  my  lips. 
'  Let  me  speak  to  her,'  1  groaned ;  but  there  was  no  sound. 
I  was  struggling,  writhing,  fighting,  but  without  motion. 
With  a  sickening  sensation  of  bodily  pain,  a  gathering- 
gloom  closed  about  me,  in  which  the  only  break  was  a 
gleam  of  light  from  behind  dull,  opaque  eyes,  half  covered 
with  their  lids.  It  was  in  them  that  the  force  which  held 
me  lay,  against  them  that  every  fibre  of  my  body  and 
brain  was  concentrated  in  the  desperate  struggle.  I  was  in 
an  outer  darkness  where  there  was  only  a  sound  of  weep 
ing,  of  rending  sobs,  each  one  beating  on  my  heart  and 
calling  me  as  by  name. 

"  '  Let  me  go  to  her,'  I  gasped,  soundlessly,  again. 

"  'Are  none  brave  enough  to  look  the  immediate  con 
sequences  of  their  own  acts  in  the  face  ? '  whispered  a 
voice  like  the  hissing  of  a  snake  in  my  ear.  Drops  of 
sweat  stood  on  my  brow;  body  and  soul,  held  as  in  a 
vise,  were  quivering  in  every  nerve,  straining  at  every 
muscle.  Darkness  and  death  seemed  to  fall ;  deep  called 
to  deep  over  my  head,  and  then,  above  all,  piercing  and 
clear,  rose  a  still,  small  voice :  — 

" '  Out  of  the  Deep  have  I  called  upon  Thee,  O 
Lord.' 

"  My  lips  moved,  my  tongue  loosened ;  words  long 
strangers  to  heart  and  lip  burst  from  me :  — 

"  '  Lord,  hear  my  voice ! ' 


22  "PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM." 

"  I  was  at  my  wife's  feet,  telling  her  I  scarcely  knew 
what,  yet  I  think  in  some  way  she  understood  and  was 
satisfied. 

"  We  were  clinging  fearfully  together  like  children. 
The  head  which  had  been  so  proudly  carried  through  all 
was  bowed  on  my  breast.  1  was  pouring  out  my  repent 
ance  and  vows  in  her  ear,  —  vows  which  have  never  been 
broken.  When  the  morning  light  came  into  the  room 
through  the  shutters,  we  were  still  sitting  there,  hand  in 
hand.  I  threw  open  the  window,  and  we  stood  watching 
the  dawn  breaking  over  the  housetops,  —  the  dawn  of  a 
new  day.  By  its  light  I  first  saw  that  peace  and  tender 
ness  in  my  wife's  face,  and  with  a  new  anxiety  I  marked 
its  pallor.  As  I  hurried  her  to  her  room  for  a  few  hours 
sleep,  I  knew  that  for  myself  sleep  was  impossible.  I 
went  out  into  the  streets  through  the  dim,  gray  light,  com 
muning  with  my  soul,  which  had  been  born  again,  full  of 
wonder  and  thankfulness.  Then  it  was  that  1  dreamed 
out  humbly  and  with  stumbling  prayers  the  life  which  is 
now  reality,  —  the  life  in  which  you  know  me,  Charles. 
Only  when  the  working  world  began  to  wake,  and  the 
shutters  to  be  taken  down  from  the  shop-windows,  did  I 
turn  toward  home. 

"  The  gold  band  which  your  aunt  wears  above  her 
wedding  ring  is  a  trifle  too  wide  for  a  guard  ;  I  bought  it 
on  my  way  home  that  morning,  and  had  the  date  of  our 
true  wedding  engraved  in  it.  This  we  call  our  marriage 
ring,  Charles ;  and  now  you  know  the  story  of  my  inner 
life." 

Charles  Gordon,  sitting  in  his  chair  opposite  his  uncle, 
gazing  at  him,  motionless  and  bewildered,  started  and 
passed  his  hand  before  his  eyes,  then  stared  again.  In  his 


"PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM."  23 

uncle's  place  sat  a  figure  which  he  knew  and  did  not 
know. 

The  face  was  scornful ;  the  eyes  half  shut  and  without 
expression.  The  figure  was  dim  and  shadowy. 

"  Have  you  the  courage  ?  "  asked  the  mocking  lips. 

He  knew  the  words  they  spoke  by  their  motion;  for 
there  was  no  sound.  Charles  felt  his  heart  leap  up  and 
then  contract.  The  power  of  bodily  motion  seemed  gone 
from  him,  and  in  its  place  was  an  activity  of  mind  which 
stretched  out  before  him  a  panorama  of  past  days  and 
weeks,  before  which  he  shuddered  and  shrank  back. 

"  No,"  he  muttered  hoarsely, — "  no,  no  —  " 

"  Has  it  been  so  bad  as  this,  Charles  ? "  whispered  a 
sorrowful  voice;  he  thought  it  the  Voice  which  would 
not  be  forgotten. 

But  now  a  strange  languor  was  creeping  over  him 
through  which  he  could  be  sure  of  nothing. 

"  Has  it  been  so  bad  as  this?  Courage,  oh,  courage! 
All  is  not  lost !  " 

The  figure  in  the  chair  rose  and  lifted  his  glass  from 
the  table.  It  was  over  full  until  the  wine  stood  like  a 
rounded  ball  above  the  rim,  yet  not  a  drop  spilled. 

" Have  you  the  courage?"  asked  the  silent  lips  again. 

Charles  lifted  his  eyes  heavily  to  the  opaque  ones  above 
him. 

"  I  am  ready,"  he  answered  dully ;  a  quick  light 
gleamed  from  behind  the  falling  eyelids. 

The  eyes  held  his.  A  shadowy  finger  rose  and  pointed 
to  his  brow ;  the  glass  touched  his  lips. 

With  sudden  revulsion,  and  an  effort  which  was  like 
the  wrenching  apart  of  body  and  soul,  Charles  broke  from 
the  torpor  which  held  him. 


24  "PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM." 

He  struggled  to  his  feet  with  a  hoarse  cry  of  defiance. 

"  Away  with  you !  I  will  have  none  of  your  mum 
mery.  Leave  me  be  to  work  out  my  own  salvation  with 
my  God." 

His  hand  struck  down  the  glass,  which  fell  to  the  floor 
with  a  crash. 

"  Charles,  my  dear  boy,  Charles,"  said  a  gentle  voice. 

Charles  Gordon  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  up  into  his 
aunt's  face.  His  uncle  was  standing  beside  her,  and  on 
the  floor  lay  a  broken  wine-glass,  the  wine  soaking  into 
the  carpet. 

"  Have  you  been  dreaming  ? "  said  Mr.  Gordon. 
"  We  heard  your  cry  upstairs ;  you  were  half  asleep 
when  I  left  you." 

Charles  looked  at  him  silently,  a  great  fear  in  his  eyes. 
His  limbs  were  shaking  and  his  lips  were  tremulous. 

What  part  of  this  had  his  uncle's  voice  told  him? 
What  part  a  phantom  of  sleep  ? 

"  Yes,"  he  faltered  ;  "I  —  1  have  been  dreaming." 

His  aunt  raised  her  soft  handkerchief  and  wiped  away 
the  drops  of  sweat  which  stood  on  his  brow ;  as  she  did 
so,  Charles  saw  above  her  wedding  ring  a  band  of  gold 
wider  than  a  guard. 

Somewhere,  —  not  in  space  or  in  form,  —  as  it  were  in 
his  mind's  eye,  there  rose  before  him  a  scornful  face  with 
eyelid's  half  shut  over  opaque  eyes,  and  lips  which  curled 
in  a  mocking  smile. 

Charles  closed   his  hand  over  his  aunt's,  clasping  it 

closely.     He  rose  to  his  feet,  facing  he  knew  not  what ; 

his  voice  was  trembling  and  uncertain,  but  his  eyes  were 

fixed  steadfastly  before  him. 

"  Whether  1  have  dreamed  or  lived,"  he  said,  "  it  is  the 


"PERCHANCE  TO  DREAM."  25 

same ;  1,  too,  have  passed  through,  and  have  come  out, on 
the  other  side,  not  dead,  but  alive." 

"Wake,  dear,  wake!"  said  Mrs.  Gordon;  "Albert, 
rouse  him,  he  is  still  dreaming." 

Mr.  Gordon  laid  his  hands  on  his  nephew's  shoulders, 
and  looked  search  ingly  into  his  face. 

"No,"  he  said  with  a  strange  smile,  —  "no,  he  is 
awakened." 


HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA. 


How  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA.* 


T   HAD  said  to  a  friend: 

*  "I  want  to  go  to  a  river,  —  a  river  in  the  moun 
tains, —  and  I  want  to  see  new  faces.  I  want  to  be  with 
people  who  won't  expect  anything  in  return  for  amusing 
me,  —  with  simple  folk  who  have  simple  ideas,  or  none 
at  all ;  for  I  find  the  society  of  a  perfect  fool  is  the  most 
acceptable  to  me  just  now." 

"  You  need  hardly  leave  your  native  city  to  seek  that 
commodity,"  my  friend  answered. 

"Yes;  but  the  city  fools  catch  the  cant  of  the  day, 
and  I  am  so  weary  of  it  all." 

"  I  know  just  what  you  mean,  just  what  you  want, 
and  just  where  to  send  you  to  get  it,"  my  friend  answered. 
"  I  will  give  you  the  address  of  a  farm-house  in  the  Vir 
ginia  mountains  where  I  was  fishing  last  summer.  The 
people  there  will  take  you  in  if  you  say  I  sent  you ;  and  I 
think  it  will  meet  all  your  requirements.  1  should  cer 
tainly  risk  it  if  I  were  you." 

And  risk  it  I  did  —  not  without  some  misgivings. 

*  For  the  accuracy  of  this  story  I  cannot  answer.  It  is  contrary 
to  every  law  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  I  can  only  quote  Reuben 
Grey  as  an  eye-witness,  and  my  authority. 


30  HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA. 

The  family  proper  was  small :  the  old  farmer  himself, 
Reuben  Grey,  —  a  man  of  more  than  eighty  years,  —  his 
wife  Mary,  and  their  adopted  daughter  Cynthia.  Then 
came,  equally  a  part  of  the  household,  Sam,  an  old  negro 
slave  born  on  the  same  day  as  his  master. 

But  the  centre  and  flower  of  the  whole  place  was 
Cynthias  Her  mother  had  been  a  Quakeress  who, 
alone  in  the  world,  had  somehow  wandered  into  the 
circle  of  kindness  surrounding  Reuben  Grey.  He  had 
taken  her  and  her  child,  first  to  his  hearth,  and  then  to 
his  heart.  I  do  not  know  which  was  the  more  large 
and  warm. 

The  mother  had  not  lived  long  to  enjoy  either,  and 
her  dying  wish  was  that  her  child  should  be  brought  up 
in  the  faith  of  her  forefathers.  This  the  pious  Presby 
terian  couple,  who  took  the  poor  little  waif  as  their  own, 
had  honestly  striven  to  accomplish. 

Cynthia  was  now  eighteen  years  old,  and  she  had  been 
sent  to  the  Quaker  settlement  regularly  every  Saturday 
night,  to  receive  religious  instruction  from  the  good 
"  Friends  "  until  Monday  morning's  duties  drew  her  back 
to  the  farm.  She  was  almost  too  sedate  and  prim  some 
times.  She  talked  little  ;  but  what  she  said  was  in  a 
voice  so  round  and  sweet  that  1  loved  to  listen  to  it, 
even  when  she  was  only  counting  over  the  eggs  for 
market.  She  always  used  the  attractive  "  thee "  of 
her  people ;  and  there  was  about  her  an  intense 
though  soft  reserve  which  kept  me  doubly  interested 
in  her. 

Next  in  my  favour  stood  Sam,  —  Sam,  with  a  bunch 
of  rags  for  a  coat,  one  eye  in  his  head,  one  tooth  in 
his  mouth,  and  a  perfectly  white  goatee  growing  out  of 


HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA.  3! 

one  side  of  his  chin  with  a  crookedness  which  was 
irresistible. 

Such  was  the  homestead,  and  so  it  happened  that  I 
came  to  be  standing  in  the  strawberry  patch  of  a  run 
down  Virginia  farm,  listening  to  the  grumbles  of  old 
Sam,  who,  unconscious  of  my  presence,  was  picking 
berries  for  my  supper. 

"  Cuss  Abe  Lincoln,  cuss  Abe  Lincoln,  I  say !  had'n 
bin  fer  his  dern  foolishness,  I  bin  a-settin'  in  Massa's 
quarters  dis  day  a-doin'  nothin'.  Ole  as  I  is,  an'  pickin' 
berries  in  dis  hot  sun !  Cuss  Abe  Lincoln ! " 

"  Oh,  Uncle  Sam  !  "  I  cried. 

"  Lord  bress  yer,  chile,  yer  dun  scere  me  to  def.  Honey, 
don'  never  speak  to  Sam  suddint  from  behin'.  I 's  a- 
tremblin'  all  over." 

"  What  makes  you  so  cross  to-day  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Mis'ry,  chile;  mis'ry  all  down  dis  side,  an'  shootin' 
cross  here,  an'  up  de  oder  side." 

He  exemplified  on  his  spare  person  with  his  thin  hand. 

"  De  berry-lines,  dey  pears  to  git  longer  an'  longer," 
he  sighed  plaintively. 

1  took  pity  on  him. 

"  1  '11  help  you  pick,  if  you  will  promise  not  to  swear 
at  President  Lincoln  any  more." 

Uncle  Sam  possessed,  with  the  rest  of  his  race,  a  talent 
for  skipping  the  disagreeable  with  a  calm  adroitness  which 
any  woman  of  the  world  might  have  envied. 

"  Yes,  honey,"  he  said,  coaxingly.  "  Yes,  help  pore 
ole  Sam  a  mite  —  how 's  your  pretty  ma  ?  " 

"  Quite  well,"  I  answered.  "  And  how  is  your  niece? 
Do  you  think  her  husband  has  really  deserted  her?  I 
was  sorry  to  hear  of  her  being  in  trouble." 


32  HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA. 

"  Well,  not  to  say  'zactly  in  trouble,  Miss  Katrine.  Yer 
see,  Ozella,  she  ain't  no  fool.  Ef  a  nigger  don'  wan'  her, 
she  don'  wan'  dat  nigger.  She  ain't  cryin'  none,  naw, 
indeed  ;  she 's  studyin'  'bout  Ozella,  an'  dere  ain't  no  time 
ter  cry.  1  ain't  a-sayin'  don'  cry  ef  you  's  got  plenty  o' 
money,  like  you  is;  but  cryin'  an'  starvin'  is  sompin  else. 
Naw,  indeed,  honey ;  be  tough  wid  de  times,  1  says,  and 
Ozella,  she  feel  jes'  like  me.  Dar  somebody  calling  of 
yer  now." 

There  was  a  handkerchief  waving  from  a  window  of 
the  house,  which  1  knew  meant  that  my  mother  was  wait 
ing  for  me  to  walk  with  her.  I  left  the  berry  patch 
and  walked  slowly  toward  the  house,  looking,  as  I  did 
so,  with  a  dreamy  enjoyment  at  the  sunny  fields  and  at 
the  clamouring  river  which  ran  beside  them,  —  a  fiver 
which  was  running  swiftly  downhill  to  reach  the  moun 
tain's  base. 

There  was  nothing  particularly  attractive  about  the 
house  itself,  excepting  the  negative  charm  of  being  almost 
hidden  by  creepers  and  honeysuckle.  It  stood  remote 
from  the  main  road,  so  isolated  as  to  make  the  figure  of  a 
man  sitting  on  his  horse  in  front  of  the  yard  gate  an  object 
of  curiosity  to  me.  I  was  attracted  by  the  fact  that  the 
rider  possessed  a  more  intelligent  face  than  any  I  had  seen 
in  this  part  of  the  world,  and  that  his  general  appearance 
was  manly  and  striking.  He  was  talking  to  the  family, 
who  were  collected  on  the  porch,  and  as  I  drew  near  said 
hastily  and  with  evident  confusion,  — 

"  It 's  to  be  next  Saturday,  —  to-day  week.  I  hope  you 
will  all  come,  and  your  guests  as  well."  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  and  then  looked  wistfully  at  Cynthia.  "Thee 
will  come,  will  thee  not?"  he  asked. 


HOW   THE   SPIRIT   MOVED  CYNTHIA.  33 

She  only  smiled  in  answer.  It  seemed  to  satisfy  him, 
however,  for  he  made  his  adieux  and  rode  away  as  I 
stepped  on  to  the  porch. 

"  1  have  an  invertation  to  a  weddin'  for  you,  Miss 
Katharine,"  cried  the  old  farmer,  gayly. 

"  Is  that  young  Nimrod  to  be  married  ? "  I  asked. 

"His  name  ain't  Nimrod ;  it 's  Richard  Rolf.  But  he 's 
to  be  married  to  the  prettiest  girl  in  thirty  miles,  to-day 
week." 

The  prettiest  girl  in  thirty  miles !  I  looked  at  Cynthia's 
delicate  beauty,  and  wondered  where  were  his  eyes. 

"  As  pretty  as  a  picter,"  he  went  on.  "  She  's  town- 
bred,  and  not  bin  here  long.  Her  mother  was  a  Quakeress 
from  the  Settlemunt,  —  like  our  Cynthy  here;  but  she 
married  a  city  man,  and  out  o'  the  faith,  so  they  cast  her 
off.  But  las'  winter  she  died,  the  same  week  as  her  husband ; 
and  then  her  people  they  went  up  to  town  and  got  Dora, 
the  onliest  child,  and  brought  her  down  here  to  upset  ev'ry 
lad  in  the  Settlemunt.  All  of  'em  were  buzzin'  'round  her. 
Even  Richard,  who  allays  was  a  stiddy  chap,  sort  o'  got 
crazy  'bout  her ;  and  bein'  as  he  has  the  best  farm  'round 
here,  —  the  Quakers  think  a  heap  of  them  things,  —  they 
do  say  her  uncle,  Frien'  Moore,  gave  the  thing  a  shove 
along.  They  '11  make  a  fine-looking  pa'r.  But  Cynthy 
can  tell  you  more  'bout  it  than  1  can  ;  they  're  her  frien's, 
all  belongin'  to  the  Settlemunt  —  eh,  Cynthy  ?  " 

"  I  think  thee  has  told  all  that  I  know,  Father,"  said 
Cynthia,  with  gentle  indifference. 

"  I  ain't  got  but  one  thing  agin'  Richard,"  continued  the 
farmer,  reflectively  ;  "  he  's  too  Quaker.  He  don't  be  thee- 
ing  ev'rybody,  like  our  Cynthy  here  —  only  his  kind;  but, 
Lord !  he  'd  better  be  a-theeing  all  over  the  place  than  bein' 

3 


34  HOW   THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA. 

so  sot  in  his  ways  about  the  movin's  of  the  Sperit.    I  never 
see  nobody  believe  in  it  like  Richard  Rolf." 

"  A  fanatic  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  don'  know  what  you  city  folks  calls  it.  1  calls  it  a 
fool.  Who  's  to  say  which  is  a-movin'  folks  to  speech, 
the  Sperit  or  the  flesh  ?  But  Richard,  he  believes  it 's  allays 
only  the  Sperit ;  and  nothin'  would  shake  him." 

"  How  old  is  he  ?" 

"  Twenty-seven,  and  Dora  just  seventeen.  I  don'  be 
lieve  in  a  man  marryin'  so  young  myself.  It 's  too  big  a 
risk  for  the  lady,  too  big  a  risk.  It  takes  a  long  time  to  be 
sure  a  man 's  settled  in  his  ways.  Now,  I  married  at  thirty - 
seven,  and  I  doubted  then  but  1  was  too  young.  1  kep' 
feelin'  anxious  for  some  years  on  Mary's  account.  I  might 
'a'  broke  out  any  time.  A  lady  can't  be  too  keerful." 

So  saying,  the  kindly  old  man  wandered  off,  intent  on 
his  farm  duties,  leaving  me  with  a  strong  desire  to  be  pres 
ent  at  the  Quaker  wedding. 

Sunday  had  come  and  almost  gone.  It  was  so  like  any 
other  day  on  the  farm  that  had  I  not  been  told  of  its 
presence  by  my  calendar,  and  observed  a  palpably  clean 
collar  on  the  master  of  the  house,  and  one  layer  less  of  dirt 
on  old  Sam,  I  should  not  have  known  any  difference  from 
the  week  days.  The  early  supper  had  been  eaten,  and  the 
"men-folks"  were  sitting  on  the  back  porch,  wrapped  in 
clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  and  talking  on  that  exhaustless 
topic,  "  the  wa-ar."  It  was  here  as  present  a  theme  as  if 
still  raging  around  the  pretty  homestead.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  feeling  were  to  be  bequeathed  to  children's  children. 

Ah,  I  could  not  wonder.  On  the  hillside  at  the  back  of 
the  house  was  the  family  graveyard.  There  lay  the  "  ole 
inistis,"  with  her  husband  beside  her.  They  had  dropped 


HOW   THE   SPIRIT  MOVED   CYNTHIA.  35 

as  the  sere  leaves,  not  before  their  time.  About  their 
deaths  hung  no  bitter  memories;  but  who  can  comfort 
Rachel  mourning  for  her  children !  In  one  corner  of  the 
graveyard  1  found  a  slab  of  marble ;  carved  on  it  in  rude 
letters  were  these  simple  words,  which  told  their  own  sad 
story,  - 

IN  THE   SERVICE  OF  THEIR  COUNTRY: 

REUBEN  GREY  died  1862,  aged  seventeen. 
HENRY  GREY  died  1861,  aped  nineteen. 
FRANCIS  GREY  died  1861,  aged  eighteen. 
All  sons  of  Reuben  and  Mary  Grey. 

"Truly,"  1  thought,  "the  bitterness  of  death  is  here." 

1  had  never  heard  the  names  of  these  children  pass  the 
lips  of  the  father  or  mother,  and  I  need  not  say  that  1 
never  alluded  to  the  discovery,  which  had  inexpressibly 
touched  me.  On  this  particular  night  I  felt  in  no  mood 
for  listening  to  the  old  soldiers'  stories,  —  they  had  a  tone 
of  sadness,  even  the  jocular  ones ;  so  I  sought  the  solitude 
of  the  front  veranda.  I  sat  down  on  the  steps,  basking  in 
the  peace  and  quiet  beauty  of  the  night. 

The  full  moon  was  riding  high  in  the  heavens,  throw 
ing  the  shadows  of  the  vines  about  the  porch  on  the 
broad  flags  at  my  feet.  There  was  just  enough  soft  breeze 
to  make  the  phantom  leaves  dance  weirdly.  The  whole 
place  seemed  asleep  except  for  the  "cluck,  cluck,"  of  an 
uneasy  hen  who  could  not  settle  herself  to  her  mind  on 
the  bough  of  a  tree  near  the  porch,  where  she  perversely 
elected  to  roost  instead  of  in  the  comfortable  hen 
house.  The  revery  into  which  I  had  fallen  was  suddenly 
interrupted. 

"  Does  thee  believe  that  every  one  has  a  soul  ? " 


36  HOW   THE   SPIRIT   MOVED   CYNTHIA. 

The  voice  was  Cynthia's,  but  a  harsh  note  in  its  usual 
music  and  the  abruptness  of  the  question  made  me  start 
and  look  up  hastily. 

"  Does  not  your  Church  teach  you  that  every  one  has  a 
soul,  Cynthia  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied  indifferently. 

"  Then  why  do  you  ask  me  such  a  question  ? " 

She  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  my  arm,  and  drew  me  to 
the  other  end  of  the  porch. 

"  Look  !  "  she  said  scornfully.  I  looked,  and  smiled  as 
I  did  so.  There,  half  in  the  shadow  of  the  old  house, 
stood  Ozella,  the  deserted  one,  —  deserted,  but  not  incon 
solable,  it  seemed,  for  by  her  side,  and  by  all  signs  having 
proved  his  power  to  comfort,  stood  a  new  adorer. 

1  turned  away,  and  sat  down  upon  the  steps  again, 
motioning  to  Cynthia  to  sit  beside  me.  1  was  amused  by 
her  disgust  and  desperate  earnestness. 

"  It  is  not  possible,  Cynthia,"  1  said,  laughing,  "  that 
you  think  faithlessness  proves  an  absence  of  soul !  Why, 
child,  if  that  were  made  a  sure  test,  half  of  the  women  in 
the  world,  1  know,  would  be  proved  soulless." 

Cynthia  bent  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm ; 
through  my  thin  sleeve  I  could  feel  that  it  was  burning  as 
with  fever.  The  moon  shone  full  on  her  face,  and  I  saw 
its  eager  look  ;  her  lips  were  parted,  a  bright  spot  of  colour 
burned  in  either  cheek,  and  her  eyes,  which  were  of  a  soft 
blue  usually,  looked  black  and  brilliant. 

"  Thee  will  tell  me,"  she  breathed ;  "  is  it  so  with  men 
also  out  in  the  world  ? " 

I  looked  at  her  in  dumb  amazement.  Was  this  the 
same  self-contained  little  maiden  who  had  waited  on  us  at 
supper,  and  whom  1  had  thought  more  than  usually  sjdate 


HOW   THE  SPIRIT   MOVED   CYNTHIA.  37 

all  day  ?  A  light  broke  on  me  suddenly.  I  remembered, 
with  a  flash  of  inspiration,  the  wistful  look  cast  on  her  by 
the  young  Quaker  the  day  before ;  and  1  knew  also  that 
Cynthia  had  refused  to  be  driven  over  to  the  Settlement 
on  Saturday  evening,  pleading  a  headache.  And  now 
this  outbreak;  for  so  1  may  call  it.  Had  1  fallen  on  a 
little  tragedy  in  this  mountain  fastness?  Poor  little 
one!  she  was  so  young  and  tender  to  have  learned 
already  that  stern  lesson  of  her  sex, — to  appear  most 
outwardly  composed  when  her  heart  was  sorest.  1 
wondered  bow  faithless  this  lover  had  been;  and  I 
could  not  think  that  Cynthia  had  given  her  heart  to  one 
wholly  unworthy,  even  with  my  slight  knowledge  of  her 
character.  All  this  darted  through  my  brain  in  a  moment ; 
then  I  suddenly  determined — Heaven  forgive  me!  — to  play 
Providence. 

"  Cynthia,"  I  said,  "  if  a  man  had  given  his  vows  to 
one  woman,  and  then  discovered  that  another  had  his 
heart,  do  you  think  he  should  keep  up  the  mockery  of  a 
false  faithfulness  ? " 

"  But  why  should  his  heart  change  ? "  she  asked  quickly. 

"  How  can  any  one  tell  ?  Solomon  himself  knew  noth 
ing  of  '  the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid.'  It  might  happen, 
and  neither  he  nor  the  second  woman  be  to  blame." 

Cynthia  suddenly  interrupted  me.  "  Does  thee  mean 
to  show  that  there  can  be  any  right  in  the  woman  who 
steals  what  belongs  to  another,  or  in  the  man  who 
lets  her?" 

"  It  might  be  neither  a  question  of  stealing  nor  letting; 
the  discovery  might  surprise  both." 

"  Thee  knows,  then,  it  is  the  Devil  teaching  and  blind 
ing  them.  There  could  be  no  blessedness  in  such  a  mar- 


38  HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA. 

riage;  and  thee  forgets  —  thee  utterly  forgets  that  other 
woman." 

I  longed  to  gather  the  suffering  child  in  my  arms,  and 
soothe  her  with  gentle  words  and  caresses;  but  this,  I 
knew,  would  be  a  cruel  kindness. 

"  No,  Cynthia,"  I  answered ;  "  I  do  not  forget  the  other 
woman.  Her  part  is  a  cruelly  hard  one,  but  not  so  hard 
as  it  would  be  if  a  false  sense  of  honour  bound  the  man's 
body  when  it  could  not  bind  his  soul." 

"  She  would  have  no  wish  to  bind  him ;  she  would  only 
despise  them  both,"  said  Cynthia,  finally. 

I  passed  over  the  question  of  the  rival  woman.  "  It 
would  not  make  her  despise  him  if  she  loved  truly,  Cyn 
thia;  she  would  learn  to  understand  that  he  was  right." 

"  Would  thee  be  willing  to  love  so  ? "  asked  Cynthia. 

"  Cynthia,  if  you  are  going  to  do  any  work  to-morrow, 
child,  you  'd  best  go  to  bed  now." 

A  heavy  step  sounded  on  the  floor,  and  the  portly  figure 
of  Mrs.  Grey  showed  in  the  open  door;  I  looked  grate 
fully  at  her.  The  interruption  was  welcome,  for  I  could 
not  quite  assure  myself  that  Cynthia's  question  did  not 
contain  a  spirit  of  criticism ;  certainly  I  had  no  answer 
ready,  and  my  enthusiasm  for  playing  Providence  was 
dashed.  Cynthia  glided  by  me  like  a  shadow,  leaving  me 
feeling  as  one  might  who  had  torn  open  a  lily -bud  and 
thus  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  golden  heart  within. 

"  It  's  a  beautiful  night,  Miss  Katharine,"  said  Mrs. 
Grey;  "but  to-morrow  's  wash-day,  and  I  don't  like  that 
rim  to  the  moon,  —  it  looks  like  rain." 

Called  back  thus  to  earth  and  mundane  matters,  I  bade 
my  hostess  a  preoccupied  good-night,  and  sought  my 
room  and  my  bed. 


HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA.  39 

The  marriage  morning  of  Richard  Rolf  dawned  bright 
and  beautiful,  and  found  me  a  strangely  excited  and 
interested  spectator  of  the  sad  little  drama  going  on 
under  my  eyes,  the  existence  of  which  I  alone  suspected. 
Cynthia  had  shown  no  consciousness  on  meeting  my 
eyes  the  morning  after  her  self-betrayal;  she  neither 
avoided  my  look  nor  sought  it,  and  in  just  the  same 
manner  did  she  behave  regarding  my  society. 

As  I  have  always  held  that  the  sin  of  betraying  the 
secrets  of  one  friend  to  another  paled  before  the  sin  of 
betraying  the  mood  of  one  day  to  the  mood  of  the  next, 
I  ignored,  as  Cynthia  did,  our  conversation  of  Sunday 
night.  I  should  have  grown  to  think  it  a  dream  of  my 
own  brain's  spinning,  had  1  not  seen  under  Cynthia's  eyes 
those  dark  rings  which  betoken  sleepless  nights,  and  ob 
served  her  more  than  usual  silence.  Her  work  was  as 
well  and  as  regularly  done  as  ever;  the  same  gentle 
sweetness  and  serenity  was  hers,  at  least  outwardly.  Her 
silence  was  unnoticed  by  the  kind  farmer  and  his  wife, 
for  she  was,  as  ever,  ready  to  discuss  fully  any  new  pro 
ject  on  the  farm  or  in  the  housekeeping.  Even  now  I  could 
hear  her  talking  over  plans  for  Monday's  apple-peeling 
with  her  adoptive  mother  as  they  sat  behind  me  in  the 
wagon,  driving  over  to  the  Quaker  wedding.  I  had  won 
dered  if  Cynthia's  strength  would  carry  her  through  this 
hardest  trial;  and  in  my  heart,  I  applauded  the  dignity 
and  self-control  which  prompted  her  to  be  present. 

Sam  sat  on  the  front  seat  beside  me,  ostensibly  driv 
ing;  but  I  had  long  ago  taken  the  reins  from  his  hands. 
He  was  idly  flicking  at  the  flies  on  the  horses'  backs 
with  his  stubby  whip. 

"  You  see  dat,"  he  said,  and  pointed  to  a  jagged  scar 


40  HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA. 

on  the  near  horse's  flank.  "  Dat  gemman  fren'  o'  yourn 
what  war  here  las'  year,  he  done  cure  dat.  What  he 
don'  know  'bout  hosses  ain'  wuth  knowin' — ef  he  did 
fit  on  de  oder  side  in  de  wor." 

"  Which  is  the  other  side,  Sam  ? " 

"  De  Yanks,  honey,"  Sam  continued,  his  elbows  on 
his  knees,  and  his  woolly  white  head  nodding  to  em 
phasize  his  remarks. 

"Young  mars,  he  fit  'em  toof  and  nail,  an'  lef  me 
to  take  keer  o'  ole  mars  an'  ole  miss',  an'  de  young 
mistis  too.  '  Sam '  says  he,  '  I  leaves  you  as  a  kind  of 
gardeen  for  'em  all,'  he  says — 'a  kind  of  gardeen.' 
Den  he  got  hisse'f  shot  in  de  leg:  not  in  de  battle  whar 
de  two  fust  pore  chillerns  was  kilt,  but  in  de  one  whar 
little  Rube  was  lef.  Dey  never  did  see  him  no  mo' ; 
we  don'  know  what  did  come  to  de  chile.  Hit  all  jes' 
dig  ole  mistis  grave,  hit  did ;  but  little  Rube,  dat  cut  her 
mos'.  When  young  mars  he  come  home,  den  I  went 
an'  I  fit  dem  Yanks  fur  more  'n  a  year." 

Oh,  Uncle  Sam  —  Uncle  Sam,  you  hoary  old  sinner ! 
Do  I  not  know  your  story !  Do  1  not  know  how  you 
thirsted  for  "freedom,"  and  how  you  deserted  wounded 
young  mars,  ole  miss',  and  all,  to  cross  the  lines  and  get 
out  of  Dixie ;  and  have  I  not  seen  the  pathetic  letter  which 
came  from  the  Massachusetts  Hospital  after  the  Spring  of 
'65,  saying,  "Young  mars,  fur  de  Lamb's  sake,  coin.' 
git  Sam.  1  never  run  away  no  mo'." 

The  cruel  New  England  winter  had  frozen  all  love  of 
freedom  out  of  poor  Sam's  heart,  child  of  the  sun  as 
he  was;  but  Sam  had  his  own  pleasing  little  fiction 
concerning  that  year  of  absence,  and  had  told  it  so 
often  that  1  think  he  had  taught  his  feeble  brain  to 
believe  it. 


HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA.  41 

By  such  discourse  did  he  beguile  the  way,  until  at 
last  the  ten  miles  of  wooded  road  were  travelled  and  the 
Quaker  meeting-house  was  in  sight.  It  stood  a  little 
apart  from  the  Settlement,  and  was  built  on  the  side  of 
a  hill  so  steep  that  a  realization  of  the  tenacity  it  must 
require  to  stick  on  made  me  feel  tired  as  I  looked  at  it. 

We  were  among  the  last  arrivals,  and  had  barely  taken 
our  seats  with  the  assembled  "  Friends,"  when  Richard 
Rolf  entered  quietly  and  sought  his  place  among  the 
men  on  the  other  side  of  the  aisle. 

1  stole  a  look  at  Cynthia,  but  she  had  taken  her 
Quakerdom  and  wrapped  it  about  her  as  a  garment;  I 
could  learn  nothing  of  her  feelings  from  her  face.  She 
had  looked  at  Richard  when  he  entered  the  room,  as  did 
the  other  women,  and  then  cast  her  eyes  down  again. 

The  door  soon  opened  to  admit  the  bride,  who  walked 
into  the  meeting-house  between  her  uncle,  Friend  Moore, 
and  his  wife. 

When  I  saw  her,  I  had  to  admit,  in  spite  of  my  jeal 
ousy  for  Cynthia's  loveliness,  that  she  possessed  a  dusky 
beauty,  as  perfect  a  type  of  its  kind  as  the  dreamy  face  on 
which  I  had  loved  to  gaze.  There  was  not  enough  charac 
ter  in  the  soft  contour  of  Dora's  face ;  but  one  gained  an 
impression  of  a  distracting  prettiness  and  coquetry  —  just 
the  kind  of  face  Hetty  Sorrel  must  have  had,  1  thought. 
She  might  have  turned  older  and  wiser  heads  than  Richard 
Rolf's  with  that  seductive  grace  and  softness. 

She  sat  down,  nestling  close  to  her  aunt's  side  like  a 
frightened  child;  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  a 
"  Friend "  by  adoption,  not  birth.  Her  hands  were 
twisted  restlessly  together,  and  her  eyelids,  which  she 
never  raised,  fluttered  nervously.  The  utter  silence  in  the 
room  was  broken  suddenly  by  a  late  comer,  and  then 


42  HOW  THE  SPIRIT   MOVED  CYNTHIA. 

for  the  first  time  the  bride  raised  her  eyes,  and  I  saw 
their  lovely  soft  brown ;  but  why,  1  wondered  amazedly, 
should  they  dilate  and  express  such  helpless  terror  as  they 
fell  on  the  face  of  the  man  who  had  just  entered. 

He  was  standing  against  the  opposite  wall  —  tor  the 
room  was  crowded  —  and  was  fixing  his  eyes  upon  Dora 
with  an  unmistakably  stern  and  threatening  expression. 
That  he  was  "  of  the  world  "  was  shown  by  his  dress ;  and 
that  the  world  had  left  its  mark  on  him  was  stamped  on 
his  features. 

But  now  Richard  rose,  and,  in  the  quaint  Quaker 
phrases,  took  Dora  for  better,  for  worse.  As  he  finished 
speaking,  the  bride  rose  mechanically ;  and  as  she  did  so,  I 
looked  at  the  man  opposite. 

He  was  leaning  forward,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  bride  as 
before,  only  more  intensely,  more  burningly ;  and,  as 
though  drawn  against  her  will,  Dora  turned  her  face  to 
him. 

In  that  moment  1  was  sure  I  saw  her  eyes  answer  his, 
and  the  next  she  tore  them  away,  and,  turning  from  him, 
opened  her  lips. 

"1,  Theodora,"  she  began,  then  faltered,  wavered,  and, 
flinging  herself  on  her  knees  before  her  aunt,  she  clung  to 
her,  crying  wildly:  "I  cannot  do  it!  Oh,  I  cannot  —  I 
cannot ! " 

Friend  Moore  rose  from  among  the  men,  and  crossed 
over  to  her.  "  Dora,"  he  said  sternly,  "  is  thee  mad  ? 
Thee  has  heard  naught  against  Friend  Rolf  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  sobbed  ;  "but  there  is  something  within 
me  that  tells  me  ill  of  him,  and  I  dare  not  marry  him." 

"  Dora,"  began  her  uncle,  still  more  sternly ;  but 
Richard  interrupted  him. 


HOW  THE  SPIRIT   MOVED  CYNTHIA;  43 

"  Nay,  Friend  Moore,  thee  shall  not  force  the  maid." 
His  voice  was  strained  and  harsh,  his  face  gray,  and  the 
veins  showed  large  on  his  temples,  but  the  composure  of 
the  young  fanatic  was  perfect.  "  If  the  Spirit  condemn 
me  through  her,  I  must  bear  it  as  a  man  may.  Who  can 
say  how  black  his  own  soul's  sins  are?  If  mine  be  so 
deeply  stained  that  the  Spirit  warns  a  pure  maid  to  beware 
of  me,  then  it  is  best  that  I  should  know  the  truth." 

I  heard  a  quick  breath  drawn  close  by  me,  and  my 
heart  gave  a  great  throb  as  I  turned  and  looked  at 
Cynthia. 

She  was  standing,  —  the  Cynthia  of  Sunday  night. 
There  was  the  same  soft  flush  on  her  cheek,  the  same 
eager  eyes  —  none  of  the  Quaker  cloak  left.  She  was 
always  lovely,  but  now  —  heavens,  how  beautiful  she  was ! 
Her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  thrilled  me  unspeakably ;  it 
had  the  tenderness  of  a  mother  to  her  child,  of  a  woman 
to  her  lover. 

"Richard,  she  is  deceiving  thee;  it  is  not  the  Spirit 
moving  her.  I  am  as  pure  a  maid  as  she,  and  nothing 
tells  me  ill  of  thee  ;  I  would  not  fear  to  marry  thee  this 
hour." 

Shaken,  trembling,  where  now  was  Richard's  com 
posure?  Striding  across  the  room,  he  caught  Cynthia 
by  the  wrists,  his  glowing  face  and  excited  demeanor 
contrasting  strangely  with  his  Quaker  garb. 

"Cynthia,"  he  whispered  almost  fiercely,  "does  thee 
mean  it  ?  Will  thee  prove  it  by  doing  so  ?  I  have  been 
as  one  possessed.  Can  thee  ever  possibly  forgive  ? " 

"  Thee  knows  it,  Richard." 

"  And  thee  will  really  marry  me,  and  now  ? " 

"  As  thee  wills,  Richard." 


44  HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA. 

"  Then  know  all  present  that  I,  Richard,  take  Cynthia 
for  my  wedded  wife." 

And  almost  before  we  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of 
the  surprise,  the  brief  religious  ceremony  was  begun  and 
ended,  and  Richard  and  Cynthia  were  man  and  wife. 

"Well,  ef  dat  don'  beat  all  — dat  pore  pretty  chile!  1 
reckon  Cynthy  won'  cry  none." 

I  moved  quickly  to  the  kitchen-door  when  I  heard  these 
words  the  morning  after  Cynthia's  strange  marriage. 

"  What  is  it,  Uncle  Sam  ?  "  1  asked  anxiously. 

"Dat  pore  little  Dora  dun  run  away,  honey,"  answered 
Uncle  Sam,  the  news-gatherer. 

"  Run  away  ? " 

"  Yes,  honey ;  let  herself  and  her  closes  down  outen  der 
winder  las'  night." 

I  began  to  see  light. 

"  To  whom  did  she  let  herself  down  ?  " 

"  To  dat  onery  city  cousin  o'  hern.  He  bin  a-hangin' 
roun'  ever  sence  de  chile  cum  from  town.  Dey  say  ole 
man  Moore  run  him  off  at  las',  but  he  war  down  to  de 
weddin'  onexpected  yestiddy ;  an'  now  he  done  got  her, 
and  what  he  gwine  to  keep  her  on,  de  Lord  knows.  She 
air  as  putty  as  a  pigeon,  she  air ;  but  she  carn't  fly  aroun' 
a-feedin'  of  herseP  like  dey  do.  Naw,  indeed !  " 

So  this  was  the  spirit  which  had  moved  poor  Dora. 
Cynthia  had  not  been  mistaken,  nor  had  1  been  over  ready 
in  surprising  meaning  glances ;  for  that  the  cousin  and  the 
mysterious  worldling  of  yesterday  were  one  and  the  same  I 
could  not  doubt.  I  hoped  that  he  might  belie  his  looks, 
for  the  sake  of  the  pretty,  rebellious  girl ;  but  my  heart 
was  too  full  of  Cynthia  to  think  much  of  Dora's  fate. 


HOW  THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA.  45 

1  felt  that  I  had  played  a  large  part,  though  behind  the 
scenes,  in  the  little  drama  just  enacted ;  and  I  was  anything 
but  comfortable  in  my  self-imposed  responsibility.  1  knew 
so  little,  and  1  had  spoken  so  strongly.  Suppose  Richard 
were  really  unworthy !  1  had  certainly  striven  to  prove  to 
Cynthia  that  he  was  not ;  but  then  how  could  I  guess  that 
a  new  character  would  be  introduced  at  the  last  moment, 
that  the  actors  would  throw  their  lines  to  the  winds  and 
speak  according  to  their  own  wills,  and  above  all  that 
Cynthia  should  play  so  unexpected  a  part  and  improvise 
so  amazingly  ?  1  longed  to  know  if  she  were  happy,  or  if 
she  already  repented  her  rash  act. 

Only  once  had  she  shown  me  her  heart ;  and  but  once 
more  was  I  to  look  into  its  pure  and  lovely  depths,  and 
then  for  a  moment  only. 

In  a  few  days  I  was  to  leave  the  mountains  forever,  and 
I  felt  that  I  could  not  go  without  a  word  of  farewell  to 
Cynthia  ;  so  the  good  farmer  drove  me  over  hill  and  dale 
to  her  new  home.  We  took  many  packages  with  us,— 
useful  household  trifles  supplied  from  the  pantry  of  the 
kind  adoptive  mother. 

That  drive  will  always  live  in  my  memory ;  I  can 
close  my  eyes  now  and  feel  a  sense  of  light  and  of  heat 
without  its  enervating  warmth,  and  see  the  many  greens 
of  the  trees,  and  hear  the  sleepy  swish  and  ripple  of  the 
water. 

By  my  side  was  old  Reuben  Grey,  whose  flow  of  speech 
needed  no  rousing  of  my  mind  to  comprehend,  nor  any 
prompting  to  go  purling  on  as  steadily  and  restfully  as  the 
river  whose  bed  we  followed. 

How  I  bathed  my  soul  in  quiet  and  nothingness,  and 
how  like  heaven  I  thought  it ! 


46  HOW   THE  SPIRIT  MOVED  CYNTHIA. 

I  noticed  idly  that  for  some  reason  the  old  man  chose 
to  drive  with  one  foot  hanging  out  of  the  dilapidated 
buggy.  Was  it  in  memory  of  the  departed  days  of 
blooded  horses,  when  it  was  safer  to  be  always  ready  ? 
1  do  not  know,  but  he  only  drew  in  that  wagging  foot 
when  fording  the  river,  which  we  did  about  a  dozen 
times  in  our  zigzag  course.  Some  of  the  fords  were 
good,  some  bad.  At  the  worst,  Reuben  Grey  drew 
rein  and  suggested  that  1  should  take  up  a  package  of 
biscuits  which  lay  at  my  feet  and  put  them  in  my  lap. 

"And,"  he  added  calmly,  "ef  1  was  you,  I  would 
jest  tuck  up  my  feet  on  the  dashboard  before  we  get  in 
the  water,  for  it  do  come  in  powerful  sometimes." 

1  took  the  biscuits  into  my  lap  and  tucked  my  feet 
up  on  the  dashboard.  Though  the  water  did  not  come 
in,  it  might  have. 

"  Anyway,  we  were  ready  for  her,"  said  the  dear 
prudent  old  man. 

At  last  we  reached  Cynthia's  home,  and  we  found 
her  the  same  gentle,  placid  Cynthia ;  looking  at  her, 
who  could  dream  of  the  slumbering  fires  within  ? 

"He, "she  told  us,  was  out  on  the  farm.  "He"  al 
ways  means  the  good  man  of  the  house  on  mountain- 
tops. 

The  young  wife  was  gracious  and  self-possessed,  show 
ing  us  over  her  thrifty,  comfortable  house,  and  never  by 
word  or  look  referring  to  any  of  the  strange  features  of 
her  marriage ;  her  gentle  dignity  was  beautiful  in  its 
simplicity. 

Only  in  the  few  moments  when  Reuben  Grey  was 
untying  the  horse  were  we  alone. 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer.    "  Dear  Cynthia,"  I  cried, 


HOW   THE  SPIRIT   MOVED  CYNTHIA.  47 

"are  you  happy?  I  shall  never  see  you  again,  and  I 
should  like  to  hear  you  say  so  before  I  go." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  and  I  could  see  that  they 
were  full  of  tears. 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply;  "and  I  shall  never  forget 
thee ;  for  it  was  thee  that  made  me  do  it.  1  could  never 
have  said  1  knew  no  ill  of  him  if  thee  had  not  shown 
me  he  had  done  no  ill;  thee  did  teach  me  to  wrestle 
with  myself  and  my  pride,  and  all  my  happiness  is  from 
thee,  under  God.  He  knows  I  must  always  love  thee." 

I  took  her  glowing  face  in  my  hands  and  kissed  her 
without  speaking. 

I  was  very  silent  all  the  way  home,  —  so  silent  that 
my  companion  inquired  anxiously  if  I  were  ill. 

"  No,"  1  thought,  "  not  ill,  only  awestruck."  I  had 
taken  a  human  soul  in  my  hands  to  play  with  it,  and 
it  was  so  beautiful  it  had  frightened  me. 


A    CHIP 


A   CHIP. 


JO  TALIAFERRO'S  father  was  poor,  his  father  had 
been  poor  before  him,  and  his  grandfather  back  of 
him  again.  It  was  in  his  great-grandfather's  days  and 
through  his  great-grandfather's  hands  that  the  money  had 
slipped  away  from  the  family ;  since  then  no  one  had  had 
the  energy  to  replace  it. 

"  It  was  too  much  trouble,"  said  the  Taliaferros,  who 
pronounced  their  name  "  Tollyver." 

Jo's  father  did  make  a  half-hearted  effort;  he  wan 
dered  North  from  his  home  in  Alabama,  and  ran  away 
with  old  Snyder  B.  Simes's  daughter  and  only  child. 
Snyder  B.  Simes,  lumber-merchant,  was  a  Maine  man  who 
had  made  his  pile  himself  and  meant  to  keep  it ;  he  burned 
his  daughter's  letters  unopened,  and  made  a  new  will. 

"  If  my  money  's  to  be  spent  in  riotous  living,  I  mean  to 
spend  it  myself,"  he  said,  buttoning  up  his  pockets. 

Mrs.  Taliaferro  burst  into  tears  when  she  first  saw  her 
new  Southern  home;  then  she  got  up  and  put  on  an  apron 
and  began  to  clean  the  house ;  this  she  continued  to  do 
until  the  day  of  her  death.  She  never  learned  to  adjust 
herself  to  her  surroundings,  nor  that  it  is  sometimes  a  good 
woman's  duty  to  ignore  dirt.  She  washed  and  scrubbed 


52  A  CHIP. 

and  cleaned,  and  was  finally  swept  out  of  this  world  on 
a  sea  of  soap-suds,  —  another  martyr  to  the  great  god  of 
cleanliness. 

She  left  one  little  boy  behind  her,  named  Jo,  to  the 
care,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  to  the  neglect  of  his 
father. 

"  Do  you  see  that  man  ?"  said  the  superintendent  of 
the  great  Brookville  Glass  Works,  which  Northern  capital 
had  lately  planted  in  Brookville  County,  Alabama  —  "do 
you  see  that  man  ?"  He  was  pointing  out  Jo's  father. 
"  Well,  you  will  never  see  him  doing  any  more  than  he  is 
now;  nobody  ever  saw  him  work.  He  eats,  drinks, 
clothes  himself,  has  a  roof  over  his  head,  and  not  a  cent  in 
his  pocket.  Now,  how  does  he  do  it  ?  And  there  are  a 
dozen  like  him  about  here.  1  tell  you,  the  mysteries  of 
Paris  are  nothing  to  the  mysteries  of  Brookville." 

And  as  we  can  never  permit  our  minds  to  dwell  on  a 
subject  without  hearing  of  it  again  within  twenty-four 
hours,  that  same  day  the  superintendent  received  a  letter 
from  Jo. 

The  spelling  was  dubious  and  the  handwriting  shaky ; 
but  there  was  nothing  dubious  or  shaky  in  the  spirit  of  the 
composition. 

MISTER  SUPERINTENDANT,  —  I  wud  like  a  Plac  in  yor  employ. 
P.  S.     Taliaferro  is  to  long  and  quar. 

The  superintendent  laughed  as  he  tossed  this  evident 
result  of  anxious  labour  in  the  scrap-basket.  The  next 
week  he  received  a  fac -simile  of  that  letter,  minus  the 
postscript,  to  which  he  accorded  a  similar  treatment ;  but 
when  he  saw  those  same  straggling  characters  on  an  en- 


A  CHIP.  53 

velope  in  his  mail  the  third  week,  he  opened  it  with  an 
amused  curiosity. 

MISTER  SUPERINTENDENT,  —  I  wrot  you  2  Letters  and  hav  no 
ansar.  I  wod  like  to  be  in  yor  employ,  but  I  kant  wait ;  I  mus  git 
a  job.  Pleas,  sir,  ansar  and  oblig.  Jo  TOLLY. 

The  superintendent's  hand  with  the  paper  in  it  hovered 
over  the  scrap-basket;  then  he  drew  it  back.  At  his 
call  a  weak-kneed  young  man  came  in  from  the  outer 
office. 

"Have  you  room  for  another  boy  out  there?"  the 
superintendent  asked.  "  You  have.  Well,  then,  write  to 
this  applicant  and  tell  him  he  may  come  on  trial." 

For  the  first  few  weeks  Jo  Tolly  was  like  a  new-born 
puppy  out  in  the  world  with  its  eyes  shut. 

"  You  must  look  about  you,  Tolly,"  said  the  head  clerk. 
"  Now,  1  started  out  with  no  money,  no  education,  no 
backing,  and  here  I  am,  all  by  keeping  my  eyes  peeled." 

The  clerk  with  the  weak  knees  struck  in:  "Look  at 
me,"  he  said.  "  I  've  been  a  sober,  honest,  industrious, 
God-fearing  man  for  fifteen  years,  and  not  a  cent  to  show 
for  it." 

Jo  turned  his  long,  ruddy  face  and  big,  innocent  blue 
eyes  from  one  to  the  other,  and  said  nothing.  He  rarely 
talked,  and  when  he  did,  it  was  with  a  deliberate  slowness 
which  barely  escaped  a  drawl.  But  he  pondered  all  that  he 
heard  in  his  heart,  apparently ;  for  gradually  his  puppy - 
dom  fell  from  him,  and  he  became  a  satisfactory  fixture  in 
the  office. 

The  Brookville  Glass  Works  were  a  close  corporation. 
They  had  bought  up  two  thousand  acres  about  the  site 
selected  for  their  works.  Their  labourers  dwelt  in  their 
cottages  built  on  their  land ;  they  bought  from  the 


54  A  CHIP. 

company  store,  and  lived  under  laws  of  their  directors' 
making. 

But  there  was  a  Naboth's  vineyard  in  the  centre  of 
the  settlement.  The  trouble  was  that  old  Colonel  Jay 
respected  his  ancestors,  and  refused  to  listen  to  any 
proposition  regarding  their  sale, —  for  the  "  vineyard  " 
was  a  family  burying-ground  this  time.  The  superinten 
dent  vainly  represented  to  him  that  the  bones  should  be 
carefully  removed. 

"They  are  earth  to  earth  by  this  time,  sir,"  said 
Colonel  Jay,  with  stateliness.  "  When  1  sell  that  ground, 
sir,  I  sell  them ;  so  we  will  not  mention  it  again,  if  you 
please,  sir." 

After  that  the  superintendent,  who  suspected  a  pistol 
in  every  Alabama  pocket,  did  not  care  to  open  the  subject 
again. 

"  Ain't  you  ever  goin'  to  sell,  Colonel  Jay  ?  "  asked  Jo. 

He  had  paddled  across  the  creek  which  separated  the 
Glass  Works  from  the  old  man's  house,  and  was  sitting  on 
his  porch  with  him  in  the  twilight. 

"  No,  sir ;  nor  I  ain't  ever  going  to  accommodate  again, 
neither.  I  told  those  Dixies  they  might  bury  their  little 
babby  there,  and  what  did  they  do?  Laid  it  right  on 
great-grandaunt  'Liza.  I  went  and  told  them  they  'd  got 
to  take  that  babby  off.  But  it  warn't  pleasant.  I  won't 
accommodate  again." 

"And  you  ain't  ever  goin'  to  sell,  Colonel  Jay?" 

"Look  here,  Jo,"  said  the  colonel,  testily,  "how  old 
are  you  ?  Eighteen  years.  Well,  1  guess  you  remember 
me  as  soon  as  you  remember  anything.  Did  you  ever 
know  me  to  change  my  mind  ?  That  ground  ain't  ever 
to  be  disturbed!"  he  added  with  finality. 


A  CHIP.  55 

Jo  turned  his  full  blue  eyes  on  the  colonel :  "  How 
about  when  you  die,  Colonel  Jay  ?"  he  asked  in  his  most 
deliberate  speech. 

The  colonel  was  staggered  and  showed  it. 

"  If  1  were  you,"  Jo  went  on,  now  looking  over  the 
water,  "  I'd  fix  that  while  I  was  able.  There 's  a  whole 
acre  there,  and  there  ain't  but  one  end  of  it  in  graves.  I  'd 
sell  it  all  under  a  deed  that  would  make  the  man  who 
bought  it  keep  the  grave  end  nice  and  clean,  and  the  grass 
cut  —  and  perhaps  flowers." 

Colonel  Jay  rose  from  his  chair.  "  Boy,"  he  cried, 
"  you  're  right !  Why  did  n't  I  think  of  that  ?"  Then  his 
face  fell  suddenly.  "  But  who  'd  be  fool  enough  to  buy  ?" 

"  I  would,"  answered  Jo,  stolidly ;  "  and  if  I  don't  pay 
you  a  hundred  dollars  for  it  in  a  year's  time,  you  can  take 
the  ground  back  and  all  the  improvements  on  it." 

What  the  improvements  meant,  the  whole  Works  soon 
knew.  "  Jo  Tolly's  store  "  was  the  talk  of  the  place.  It 
was  little  more  than  a  shanty ;  but  the  labourers  soon 
learned  that  the  shanty  had  goods  of  better  quality  and 
lower  price  on  its  shelves  than  the  Company's  handsome 
store-house  had  on  theirs. 

"  It  ain't  very  pretty  outside,  but  I  tried  to  have  it  good 
in,"  said  Jo,  modestly,  looking  at  the  well-stocked  walls. 
"  I  spent  all  my  money  there." 

The  money  referred  to  was  a  small  sum  which  he  had 
obtained  by  auctioning  off  the  worn-out  roof  which  covered 
him,  and  the  bit  of  land  On  which  it  stood ;  the  rest  of  the 
tract  had  been  sold  almost  to  the  very  door-step  long  before. 
There  had  been  no  one  to  interfere  in  his  reinvestment,  his 
father  having  performed  the  first  graceful  act  in  his  worth 
less  life  by  stepping  out  of  it  at  this  opportune  time. 


56  A  CHIP. 

"  Don't  spend  all  your  money  in  shoestrings  and  rock- 
candy,  Tolly,"  the  superintendent  had  said.  "  Put  it  in  the 
bank,  and  try  to  keep  adding  to  your  bank-book.  That 's 
the  way." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jo,  submissively;  but  at  the  same  time 
it  was  not  his  way,  nor  did  he  follow  it. 

At  first  the  Tolly  store  was  only  open  at  night,  and  Jo 
waited  on  the  customers  after  hours ;  but  as  the  business 
grew,  a  small  boy  kept  store  by  day  and  was  assistant  to 
the  proprieter  at  night. 

"  I  should  n't  think  you  'd  dare,  Jo ;  I  should  n't,  in 
deed,"  said  the  weak-kneed  clerk,  who  came  to  inspect 
his  enterprise  by  stealth  and  after  nightfall.  "Why,  I 
would  n't  even  like  the  chief  to  see  me  come  in  here ;  and 
how  can  you  sleep  right  next  to  those  graves  ? " 

"  1  like  them,"  said  Jo,  showing  the  first  sign  of  interest ; 
"  I'm  getting  real  fond  of  them.  I  like  Aunt  'Liza,  and  I 
feel  like  I  knew  Aunt  Jane. 

'"  Dear  friends,  repent;  no  more  delay, 
For  death  will  come,  to  take  no  nay. 
Be  always  ready,  night  and  day  ; 
I  suddenly  was  snatched  away.' 

I  feel  just  like  she  was  saying  it  to  me  every  time  I  read  it." 
The  head  clerk  —  he  of  the  "  peeled  eyes  "  —  also  paid 
Jo  a  visit;  but  he  came  in  by  broad  daylight,  and  exam 
ined  everything.  He  laughed  a  good  deal,  and  looked  at 
Jo's  placid  face  curiously. 

"  You  're  bucking  against  a  big  concern,  boy,"  he  said. 
"  I  tell  you,  you  '11  have  to  work  like  an  ox  and  kick  like 
a  steer." 

Jo,  smiling  his  usual  rather  stupid,  slow  smile,  listened 
to  each  one,  and  said  nothing. 


A  CHIP.  57 

As  yet  the  superintendent  had  said  nothing  either,  but 
that  came.  One  day,  as  Jo  was  passing  through  his  office, 
he  stopped  him.  "  Tolly,"  he  said  carelessly,  "  how  much 
do  you  hold  your  land  at  ?  " 

"What  do  you  think  it's  worth,  sir?"  inquired  Jo, 
respectfully. 

"  Not  much." 

"  1  've  got  my  store  built  and  paid  for  out  of  it,"  Jo 
went  on,  as  though  calculating  aloud ;  "  I  've  paid  for  my 
land  ;  the  business  is  growing,  and  - 

"  You  take  a  week  to  think  it  over  in,"  said  the  super 
intendent,  hastily. 

On  that  day  week  Jo  entered  the  superintendent's  office, 
and  stood  before  his  desk. 

"  Well,  Tolly,"  said  the  superintendent,  "  what  is  it? " 

"  It 's  ten  thousand  dollars,"  said  Jo. 

When  the  superintendent  had  a  little  recovered  he  knew 
that  he  was  a  very  angry  man,  and  at  the  same  time  that 
it  behooved  him  to  walk  carefully. 

"  The  directors  could  n't  consider  such  a  price,"  he  said ; 
"  it  would  n't  be  worth  it  to  them." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Jo,  meekly;  "I  know  it  ain't  worth 
much  to  anybody  but  me." 

Then  it  was  that  the  superintendent  gave  Jo  very  clearly 
to  understand  that  he  considered  him  infringing  on  the 
rights  of  the  company  in  whose  service  he  was. 

The  boy  looked  so  puzzled  that  he  melted  somewhat. 
"  You  don't  understand  me." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Jo ;  "I  thought  I  owned  the  land." 

"  So  you  do,"  said  the  superintendent,  reassuringly, 
feeling  now  on  sure  ground  ;  "  but  not  for  all  purposes." 

"  I  thought  I  could  put  a  saloon  on  it  if  1  wanted  to," 
said  Jo,  in  a  depressed  voice. 


58  A  CHIP. 

The  superintendent's  hair  almost  stood  on  end;  a 
grog-shop  in  the  midst  of  his  Works !  He  could  hardly 
conceal  his  dismay. 

" Tolly,"  he  said  sternly,  "you  must  choose  between 
the  office  and  your  shop;  no  man  can  serve  two 
masters." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  you  are  very  kind,  sir,"  said  Jo,  look 
ing  gratefully  at  him.  "  I  was  thinking  my  clerk  wasn't 
doing  as  well  as  he  might  if  I  had  my  eye  more  on 
him." 

"  And  1  assure  you,  gentlemen,"  said  the  super 
intendent,  reporting  to  the  Board  of  Directors  at  their 
next  meeting,  "when  that  boy  left  my  office  I  did  not 
know  whether  it  was  as  a  fool,  or  as  having  made  a 
fool  of  me." 

"  Call  the  lad  in,"  suggested  one  of  the  directors. 
"  Let  us  see  if  we  can  make  anything  of  him." 

Jo  came  in  at  once  on  being  summoned ;  he  did 
not  even  tarry  to  take  off  the  apron  which  he  wore  in 
his  shop,  or  to  brush  the  flour  from  his  coat.  These 
adjuncts  helped  to  heighten  the  ruddy  innocence  of  his 
appearance  as  he  entered.  He  faced  the  curious  eyes 
of  the  waiting  Board  with  a  disarming  guilelessness. 

"  Did  you  want  me,  sir,"  he  asked  of  the  super 
intendent,  and  the  slow  motion  of  his  lips  was  almost 
foolish. 

But  had  those  lips  only  been  formed  to  say  "  ten 
thousand  "  they  could  not  have  repeated  it  more  persist 
ently  when  the  question  of  barter  was  opened.  His 
slow-moving  blue  eyes  looked  with  open,  childish  appeal 
into  the  assembled  faces. 

"  I  do  think  it 's  worth  that  to  me,  sir,  don't  you  ? " 


A  CHIP.  59 

he  asked  of  the  most  urgent  speaker;  and  that  gentle 
man  suddenly  collapsed. 

There  was  one  director  who  took  no  part  in  the 
controversy ;  he  sat  in  his  chair  rubbing  his  hands 
together  and  watching  the  scene  from  his  keen,  deep- 
set  eyes.  Every  now  and  then  his  spare  frame  was 
shaken  with  silent  laughter.  As  the  door  closed  on  Jo's 
retreating  figure,  he  gave  way  to  spasms  of  alternate 
laughter  and  coughing. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  Lord !  "  he  chuckled,  wiping  his  eyes, 
"to  have  that  fool-look  on  the  outside  of  his  head  and 
all  that  horse -sense  on  the  inside !  " 

"  Then,  sir,  you  think  him  playing  a  game,  do  you  ?  " 
asked  the  superintendent. 

"Playing?  He's  played  it!  Hasn't  he  caught  us 
in  just  the  trap  he  started  out  to  ? "  The  old  man 
went  off  in  another  paroxysm  of  laughter.  "  What 
did  you  say  the  lad's  name  was,"  he  gasped  as  he 
recovered. 

"  Jo  Tolly,"  answered  the  disgusted  superintendent, 
"  or,  rather,  that 's  what  he  calls  himself ;  his  real  name 
is  T-a-1-i-a-f-e-r-r-o." 

"  Taliaferro,  —  Joseph  Taliaferro.  What  was  his 
father's  name  ? " 

"  Joseph,  also,  I  believe." 

"  It 's  him  !  As  sure  as  my  name  's  Snyder  B.  Simes, 
it 's  him !  "  cried  the  old  man,  rising  to  his  feet,  excitedly. 
"Where's  he  gone?  Where's  he  gone?" 

He  rushed  from  the  room,  his  thin  legs  wavering 
under  him,  followed  by  the  bewildered  superintendent. 
When  they  returned,  Jo  Tolly,  divested  of  the  flour 
and  apron  now,  was  with  them. 


60  A   CHIP. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Snyder  B.  Simes,  "allow 
me  to  present  my  grandson  to  you,  formerly  of  the 
firm  of  '  Jo  Tolly,'  now  full-pledged  partner  of  the  lum 
ber  firm  of  '  Snyder  B.  Simes  &  Grandson.'  The  Tolly 
store  is  closed,  gentlemen.  We  —  that  is,  my  partner 
has  decided  that  it  is  more  advantageous  for  our  present 
business  to  be  on  agreeable  terms  with  this  Brookville 
Glass  Works  Company." 

Here  Mr.  Simes,  shaking  with  laughter,  broke  down 
again. 

"  Oh,  boys,  ain't  he  a  chip  of  the  old  block  ? "  he 
cried.  "  What  will  you  have,  gentlemen  ?  It 's  the 
firm's  treat." 


THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 


THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 


"What  is  good  for  a  bootless  bene? 

"Whence  can  comfort  spring, 
When  prayer  is  of  no  avail?" 

WORDSWORTH. 

WASSISETTI  LAKE,  one  of  Nature's  tearful  dimples, 
lies  in  the  midst  of  the  Wassisetti  Hills  in  Canada. 
It  is  fed  by  unobtrusive  springs  and  streams ;  and  although 
not  long  or  wide,  its  depth  is  in  places  unfathomable. 

Among  its  many  coves  is  one  where  the  hills  run 
almost  sheerly  down  on  all  three  sides,  cutting  off  the' 
winds,  and  throwing  gloomy  shadows  on  the  quiet  water. 
A  tiny  stream  trickles  down  the  slope,  and  its  tinkle  as  it 
drops  into  the  lake  is  the  only  sound  which  breaks  the 
oppressive  stillness.  In  winter,  when  the  cold  has  frozen 
the  stream  into  silence  and  hushed  that  indefinable  soft 
murmur  of  summer  growth  which  some  have  ears  to  hear, 
this  spot  seems  unbearably  desolate. 

Yet  on  a  cold  Christmas  afternoon,  a  man's  figure  might 
have  been  seen  standing  on  the  small  platform  of  land 
formed  by  a  bend  of  the  hill  before  it  dropped  into  the 
lake.  Nor  was  he  without  personal  surroundings. 

There  was  a  tiny  hut  on  the  platform,  built  of  rudest 
materials,  but  carefully  constructed.  The  foundations  were 
of  stone,  evidently  taken  from  the  hillside,  for  their  former 


64  THE   GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 

companions  still  lay  there ;  the  walls  were  of  logs  daubed 
with  mud. 

The  man  was  standing  looking  up  into  the  branches  of 
a  tall  spruce-tree,  on  which  a  cluster  of  unusually  large 
and  beautiful  cones  was  growing.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
complete  suit  of  brown  corduroy,  and  as  he  stood  with 
his  head  thrown  back  his  face  was  an  interesting  study. 
His  hair  was  quite  white,  while  the  eyebrows  and  closely 
clipped  mustache  and  pointed  beard  were  black.  There 
were  deep  lines  scored  in  his  forehead,  and  sweeping  lines 
ran  also  from  the  sensitive  nostrils  toward  the  corners  of 
the  lips.  But  the  eyes  were  his  most  striking  feature  ;  in 
colour  they  were  a  peculiar  red-brown,  and  in  expression 
strangely  introspective,  or  what  is  better  known  as  deep. 

When  the  man  began  climbing  the  tree,  which  he  pres 
ently  did,  his  motions  were  more  stiff  than  agile.  The 
boughs  were  crusted  with  ice,  yet  he  climbed  into  them 
with  a  carelessness  which  amounted  to  recklessness.  As 
his  hand  touched  the  cones,  he  started,  and  almost  fell 
from  his  perch. 

A  queer  little  voice  had  broken  the  stillness.  "  He  's 
d-dressed  all  in  plush,"  it  said  whisperingly. 

Two  little  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  stood  hand  in 
hand  under  the  tree  gazing  up  at  the  climber,  who  looked 
at  them  and  laughed. 

"  Catch,"  he  said,  as  he  plucked  the  cones  and  flung 
them  down  on  their  heads. 

When  he  reached  the  ground  himself,  he  walked  up  to 
the  children  and  held  out  his  arm. 

"  Would  you  like  to  feel  the  plush  ?  "  he  asked. 

It  was  evident  that  even  to  these  childish  minds  his 
appearance  was  unusual.  The  little  girl,  who  was  the  elder 


THE   GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.  65 

by  several  years,  drew  back ;  but  the  boy  dragged  his  hand 
from  hers,  and  laid  it  on  the  corduroy  sleeve. 

"  It 's  s-soft,"  he  said,  looking  up  into  the  man's  face, 
and  answering  his  smile. 

It  was  the  same  queer  little  voice  that  had  spoken 
before.  There  was  a  slight  hesitation  in  his  speech  and  in 
the  child's  manner ;  he  was  a  fragile -look  ing  little  fellow. 
The  stranger  noted  the  delicacy  of  his  hands  as  they  lay 
on  his  sleeve,  blue  with  the  cold  ;  he  took  them  in  his,  and 
rubbed  them  gently. 

"  Where  are  your  gloves  ?"  he  asked ;  for  in  every  other 
respect  the  boy  was  carefully  protected. 

"  Nurse  has  them.     We  r-runned  away." 

The  smiling  face  changed  suddenly.  "  Where  do  you 
live  ?" 

"  In  the  big  house  on  the  hill.     We  've  c-comed  home." 

"And  what  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Urwick  Manly  —  and  s-she  's  Gladys." 

The  man  gazed  abstractedly  out  over  the  frozen  lake, 
and,  with  the  quick  perception  of  childhood,  the  boy  knew 
that  his  presence  was  forgotten.  He  moved  his  little 
hands,  which  yet  lay  in  the  stranger's,  uneasily,  and  thus 
roused,  the  man  looked  down  kindly,  but  still  evidently 
with  his  thoughts  elsewhere. 

"  Run  home,  now,  both  of  you,  or  nurse  will  be  anxious," 
he  said.  "  You  may  take  the  cones  with  you." 

The  children  trudged  away  obediently  by  a  rough  bridle 
path  which  ran  about  the  hills,  but  so  long  as  they  were  in 
sight  the  boy  kept  turning  back,  crying :  "  Good-by, 
Gentleman-in- Plush,  good-by !  " 

The  Gentleman-in-Plush  stood  before  the  door  of  his 
hut  with  his  hand  on  the  latch.  He  looked  at  the  poor 

S 


66  THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 

dwelling,  and  behind  it  at  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  on 
the  hill,  a  network  against  the  gray  sky ;  he  looked  at 
the  bleak  cove  in  its  ice  setting  and  magnificent  dreariness. 

"  Not  even  this  left!"  he  said  aloud,  and  passed  in. 

Mr.  Manly,  the  owner  of  the  house  on  the  hill,  was  a 
tall,  fine-looking  Canadian  who  had  married  an  English 
wife,  and  they  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  of  nearly  a 
year  at  her  father's  home.  He  had  laughed  so  heartily  at 
the  account  of  a  tramp  in  plush,  that  the  day  after  Christ 
mas,  Urwick  insisted  on  guiding  him  to  the  hut  in  the  cove, 
that  he  might  see  with  his  own  eyes. 

"  I  can  stand  anything  but  tramps,"  said  Mr.  Manly, 
"  and  I  expect  to  find  one  housed  under  every  bush,  not 
all  of  them  '  gentlemen-in-plush,'  either  —  eh,  Urwick  ?  " 

Urwick,  riding  on  his  little  pony  by  his  father's  side, 
looked  hurt  and  said  nothing.  His  father,  with  all  his 
kindness,  cud  not  quite  understand  him,  and  was  rather 
fond  of  teasing  him. 

Leaving  the  beaten  road  they  struck  off  into  a  bridle 
path,  which  led  up  and  down  hills  which  might  have 
been  dangerous  riding  had  the  Canadian  horses  been  any 
less  rough -shod  or  surefooted. 

"  There  's  his  house,"  said  Urwick,  when  they  reached 
the  cove. 

Mr.  Manly  rode  up  to  the  hut  and  examined  the 
structure. 

"  The  coolness  of  the  beggar!  "  he  said,  as  he  rapped 
on  the  door  with  the  handle  of  his  riding-stock.  "  It 's 
pretty  well  built,  though." 

Had  he  been  on  his  own  feet  instead  of  on  his  horse's 
back,  Mr.  Manly  would  have  started  back  at  the  appear 
ance  of  the  man  who  almost  immediately  opened  the  door. 


THE   GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.  67 

"That's  the  G-Gentleman-in-Plush,  Papa,"  Urwick 
whispered. 

"It  is  Mr.  Manly,  I  suppose.  You  will  pardon  me  for 
not  inviting  you  into  your  own  house,"  said  the  stranger, 
quietly.  His  voice  was  low,  and  his  enunciation  peculiarly 
cultivated. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Manly. 

The  question  was  so  evidently  the  result  of  an  extreme 
surprise,  and  not  roughness,  that  the  stranger  smiled  as 
he  answered,— 

"  Have  your  outbuildings  never  been  infested  by 
tramps  before  ? " 

"By  tramps?    Yes—" 

"  That  is  the  class  of  society  to  which  I  belong.  I  have 
been  here  for  six  months ;  longer  than  1  have  rested  any 
where  in  as  many  years." 

Mr.  Manly  looked  about  him  and  shivered  at  the 
aspect.  "  With  the  whole  farm  to  choose  from,  why,  in 
Heaven's  name,  did  you  pitch  on  this  spot  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Tramps  have  fancies  as  well  as  other  men." 

"Why  attempt  that  role?"  said  Mr.  Manly,  a  little 
impatiently. 

"  I  should  think  you  might  consider  that  I  had  acted  it 
consistently.  I  have  used  your  land  as  a  home,  your 
timber  for  building,  your  fire-wood  for  warmth,  and  am 
now  prepared  to  be  driven  out  as  an  ordinary  intruder." 

"What  you  speak  of  has  no  value,"  returned  Mr. 
Manly,  quickly.  He  was  as  uncomfortable  as  if  he  had 
been  the  one  caught  trespassing.  "  There  is  no  question 
of  driving  you  out.  You  are  welcome  to  stay  here  as 
long  as  you  want,  —  which  would  not  be  long  if  1  were 
in  your  place."  He  again  glanced  around  the  dreary 
amphitheatre  of  skeleton  trees  and  ice. 


68  THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 

The  man's  eyes  followed  his.  "Yet  I  have  known 
some  peaceful  hours  here,"  he  said,  "  and  1  am  grateful 
to  you  for  the  permission." 

Mr.  Manly  paused  before  he  spoke  again.  "  As  yet, 
The  Gentleman-in-Plush  is  the  only  name  you  have,"  he 
said. 

They  both  looked  at  Urwick,  who  had  sat  quietly  on 
his  pony  listening.  The  stranger  smiled. 

"  As  well  that  as  another,"  he  replied  at  last ;  "  will 
Dennis  Plush  satisfy  you,  Mr.  Manly  ? " 

"  As  you  will,"  answered  Mr.  Manly,  somewhat  stiffly. 
"  Good-morning.  Come,  Urwick." 

But  Urwick  stopped  to  shake  hands  in  farewell. 
"  Good-by,  G-Gentleman-in-Plush,"  he  said,  in  his  odd 
little  voice.  "  1  will  come  again  to  visit  you  some  day, 
-  p-perhaps  to-morrow." 

"  Well,  Urwick,"  said  Mr.  Manly,  as  his  son  joined 
him,  "you  were  only  half  wrong,  after  all,  my  boy. 
Your  tramp  was  not  dressed  in  plush ;  but,  stranger  still, 
he  is  a  gentleman,  and  I  was  the  embarrassed  one, 
not  he." 

Not  only  on  the  morrow,  but  on  many  successive  days, 
did  Urwick  visit  the  hut  in  the  cove.  The  two  children, 
for  Gladys  often  accompanied  him,  were  the  only  human 
beings  who  ever  entered  its  walls. 

When  it  became  necessary  to  replenish  his  larder,  the 
Gentleman-in-Plush,  as  the  children  still  called  him,  would 
walk  over  to  the  neighbouring  village  and  make  his  pur 
chases,  calling  at  the  post-office  for  a  periodic  letter  which 
came  addressed  to  "  A.  B.  C. ;  "  and  then,  having  spoken 
no  unnecessary  word,  he  would  return  to  his  hut. 

Mr.  Manly  formed  the  habit  of  riding  down  the  hill 


THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.  69 

once  or  twice  a  week  with  a  pocketful  of  English  papers 
and  periodicals,  which  he  found  were  the  only  small  com 
forts  not  refused  with  steady  decision.  He  would  sit  on 
the  horse's  back  at  the  hut  door  chatting  with  the  recluse, 
but  he  was  never  invited  to  enter. 

"  Dennis  Plush  is  evidently  a  cultivated  gentleman  with 
a  tile  loose  somewhere,"  said  Mr.  Manly.  "  What  do  you 
and  your  mysterious  friend  find  to  talk  about,  Urwick  ?  " 

"  He 's  trying  to  teach  me  n-not  to  stammer,  and 
s-some  other  little  things,"  the  boy  answered. 

Later  Mr.  Manly  found  out  what  the  other  little  things 
were.  As  a  surprise  on  his  birthday,  Urwick  proudly 
recited  to  him  an  ode  of  Horace  and  some  lines  of 
Homer. 

"The  Gentleman-in- Plush  taught  me,"  he  said. 

There  had  been  trouble  in  the  Manly  household  over 
Urwick's  education  ;  for  even  his  father  recognized  that  he 
was  unfit  for  boarding-school. 

It  was  an  unexpected  solution,  and  one  which  was 
gratefully  accepted,  when  the  Gentleman-in-Plush  offered 
to  undertake  the  boy's  education.  He  taught  him  in  the 
hut  through  the  rest  of  the  winter,  and  when  summer  came 
gave  him  lessons  in  woodcraft  aiad  botany,  thus,  by  gentle 
degrees,  interesting  the  delicate  boy  in  outdoor  pursuits. 
He  cured  him  of  his  inborn  shrinking  from  the  lake  by 
which  he  lived ;  and  the  two  spent  days,  in  exploring  its 
jagged  shore,  thrusting  the  nos-e  of  their  canoe  in  every 
inlet  and  secluded  nook.  He  taught  him  also  to  watch  the 
habits  of  the  small  wild  animals  in  the  wood ;  for  there 
seemed  a  strange  familiarity  and  affinity  between  these  shy 
dumb  creatures  and  the  man  who  dwelt  among  them  from 
month  to  month  with  only  a  little  child  as  companion. 


70  THE   GENTLEMAN-IN-PLXJSH. 

So  the  seasons  slipped  by,  one  after  the  other.  Gladys 
was  but  eight  years  old  when  the  Gentleman-in-Plush  was 
first  discovered  in  his  hut,  and  when  her  fourteenth  birth 
day  came  he  was  still  there.  On  the  afternoon  of  that  day 
Mrs.  Manly  sought  her  husband  with  a  troubled  look  on 
her  fair,  motherly  face. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said ;  "  something  so 
strange  has  happened." 

She  opened  her  hand,  on  the  palm  of  which  lay  a 
ring,  with  its  old-fashioned  setting  holding  a  pink  pearl, 
surrounded  by  diamonds. 

"  The  Gentleman-in-Plush  gave  it  to  Gladys,"  she  said 
gravely. 

Mr.  Manly  took  the  ring  and  examined  it.  "  It  looks 
like  an  heirloom,  and  it  may  be.  It  is  no  more  mysterious 
than  the  man  has  always  been ;  there  is  something  very 
odd  about  the  whole  affair,  —  nothing  worse  trian  eccen 
tricity,  though.  There  is  no  reason  that  Gladys  should 
not  keep  his  gift." 

But  Mrs.  Manly  still  looked  troubled.  "  This  is  the 
least  strange  part  of  it.  He  gave  Gladys  the  ring,  telling 
her  that  she  was  a  young  lady  now,  and  might  wear  it. 
At  the  same  time  he  sent  me  a  message,  which  Gladys  was 
crying  too  much  to  deliver  clearly ;  but  the  child  under 
stood  from  it  that  she  was  not  to  go  to  the  hut  after  this." 

Mr.  Manly  was  indignant.  "  Nonsense !  Why  not  ? 
She  is  a  mere  baby.  Tell  Gladys  she  sha'n't  be  made  to 
cry  on  her  birthday.  I  will  go  to  the  cove  myself  and  see 
Plush  about  it." 

The  door  of  the  hut  was  opened  before  Mr.  Manly 
could  knock.  "  I  heard  your  horse's  feet,"  said  the  Gentle 
man-in-Plush. 


THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.  71 

Mr.  Manly  plunged  at  once  into  the  matter  on  his  mind. 
"  I  came  to  see  you  about  Gladys,  Plush.  What  non 
sense  have  you  been  talking  to  the  child  ?" 

"  I  supposed  that  was  what  you  had  come  for.  Will 
you  walk  into  the  hut,  Mr.  Manly  ?"  The  invitation  was 
as  quietly  given  as  if  it  had  not  been  delayed  for  six  years. 

Mr.  Manly,  interested  and  surprised,  tied  his  horse,  and 
entered,  looking  around  him  not  without  a  stirring  of 
curiosity. 

One  end  of  the  small  room  was  neatly  curtained  orT- 
he  judged  to  conceal  a  bed,  as  none  was  visible  elsewhere. 
The  walls  on  the  inside,  as  on  the  out,  were  of  rough  tree- 
trunks,  with  the  bark  still  on  them.  A  rudely  made  table, 
two  chairs,  and  a  stool  were  in  one  corner,  and  a  stove, 
with  cooking  utensils  hanging  behind  it,  in  another. 

The  only  difference  between  this  interior  and  that  of  an 
ordinary  woodman's  hut,  lay  in  its  exquisite  cleanliness  and 
in  the  presence  of  a  book -shelf  standing  against  the  wall. 
This  shelf  of  books  must  have  been  conspicuous  in  a 
well-furnished  room,  but  in  the  rude  setting  of  the  hut 
the  crimson  and  purple  and  gold  and  blue  of  the  rich  bind 
ings  glowed  like  the  jewel  in  a  toad's  head. 

Mr.  Manly  hardly  repressed  an  exclamation.  His  com 
panion  seemed  unconscious  of  his  surprise.  He  motioned 
him  toward  a  chair ;  and  then  —  for  the  shadows  were  fall 
ing —  he  drew  the  curtains  over  the  windows,  and  lighting 
a  candle,  set  it  on  the  table.  There  was  a  repressed  agi 
tation  in  his  silence,  and  Mr.  Manly,  silent  also,  waited 
with  a  strange  interest,  which  became  intense  when  his 
host  brought  out  a  portfolio  from  behind  the  screen  and 
laid  it  on  the  table  by  the  candle.  As  the  light  fell  on  it, 
Mr.  Manly  saw  that  the  edges  and  clasps  were  of  silver, 


72  THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 

and  that  a  coat-of-arms  had  evidently  been  torn  from  the 
back ;  for  the  uncertain  impress  of  a  shield  and  crest  and 
mantle  were  still  visible  on  the  leather. 

"  Will  you  read  this?"  said  the  Gentleman-in-Plush. 

He  drew  a  letter  from  its  envelope  and  handed  it  to  Mr. 
Manly,  who  noticed  that  his  hand  trembled  and  that  his 
form  seemed  shrunken.  He  looked  to  him  suddenly  ;i 
hundred  years  old. 

If  the  reader  expected  to  gain  much  knowledge  from 
the  letter,  he  was  mistaken.  It  was  signed  with  a  woman's 
name  — "  Harriet  Eleanore  Grey  "  —and  was  a  generaliza 
tion  of  scathing  denunciations.  It  cut  off  forever  the  soul 
to  whom  it  was  addressed  from  the  writer,  from  those  in 
whose  name  she  wrote,  even  it  seemed  from  all^  human 
kind  and  Heaven's  mercy  itself. 

Mr.  Manly  laid  the  letter  down  with  a  gesture  of  horror ; 
words  of  indignation  were  on  his  lips,  when  his  compan 
ion's  passionless  voice  stopped  them. 

"  That  letter  was  written  by  my  mother's  sister,  the 
gentlest  woman  in  all  England." 

As  the  letter  was  replaced  in  the  envelope,  Mr.  Manly 
involuntarily  glanced  at  the  superscription.  A  part  of  it 
was  torn  away,  but  he  read  : 

To  the  Honourable  Dennis  Fl 

Glen  — 

England. 

And  he  sat  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  He  was  roused  by 
something  being  laid  on  the  table  before  him ;  it  was  the 
portrait  of  a  woman,  painted  on  ivory  and  framed  in 
gold.  The  face  was  beautiful,  although  more  proud  than 
strong. 

"  That  is  my  wife,"  said  the  same  mechanical  voice. 


THE   GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.  73 

"Is  she  living?"  Mr.  Manly  could  not  repress  the 
question. 

"  No ;  1  killed  her  as  surely  as  by  poison  or  steel.  There 
are  other  ways — and — more  cruel."  He  rose  and  closed 
the  portfolio. 

Mr.  Manly,  feeling  himself  dismissed,  rose  also,  but 
not  silently ;  his  pity  rose  higher  than  his  companion's 
reserve. 

"Plush,"  he  said,  "or  whatever  you  please  to  call 
yourself,  1  don't  know  in  what  way  you  have  sinned 
against  your  family  and  society,  but  1  do  know  that 
hiding  is  no  reparation.  Go  back  to  your  people,  and 
live  it  down  among  them." 

The  hands  of  the  man  thus  urged  closed  convulsively 
over  the  back  of  the  chair  by  which  he  stood;  for  a 
moment  Mr.  Manly  thought  that  he  clung  to  it  for  sup 
port.  His  face  was  gray,  and  his  lips  were  white ;  twice 
he  tried  vainly  to  speak. 

"  I  have  two  sons,  and,  did  I  ever  pray,  I  should  pray 
God  that  they  may  never  know  more  of  me  than  they 
do  now." 

His  tones  were  without  pulse  or  feeling;  he  was  as 
passionless  as  a  dead  man. 

It  was  Mr.  Manly's  voice  that  sounded  human,  and 
that  broke  when  he  answered:  "God  send  you  a 
prayer,  and  a  better  one ! " 

As  he  turned  away,  the  exile  followed  him,  and  laid 
his  hand  on  his  arm,  for  the  first  time  speaking  and 
acting  entirely  as  an  equal ;  yet  his  words  were  entreat - 
ingly  humble. 

"You  will  let  me  see  the  boy  sometimes,  Manly?" 

Mr.  Manly  nearly  broke  down  again  when,  excitedly 


74  THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 

striding  up  and  down  his  wife's  room,  he  told  her  of 
the  interview. 

"  It  was  like  a  lost  soul  in  hell  praying  for  a  drop 
of  water,"  he  said.  "Think  of  a  man  of  birth  and 
position  falling  to  this !  You  must  lend  him  the  boy, 
Mabel,  whenever  you  can  spare  him." 

"  And  Gladys  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Manly. 

Mr.  Manly  ceased  his  walk,  and  stood  looking  thought 
fully  out  of  the  window  toward  the  cove.  His  wife 
repeated  her  question,  - 

"Shall  I  send  Gladys,  too,  dear?" 

"  I  don't  believe  he  would  permit  it,"  said  her  hus 
band,  evasively ;  and  then  she  knew  what  he  wished 
her  to  do. 

Whether  he  imagined  it,  or  whether  that  unsealing 
of  the  long-closed  springs  opened  a  torrent  of  haunting 
thought  which  wore  on  the  body  of  the  Gentleman-in- 
Plush,  Mr.  Manly  did  not  know ;  but  to  his  eyes  he 
seemed  changed  and  aged  after  that  day. 

There  was  no  further  reference  made  by  either  to 
their  strange  interview,  and  the  only  alteration  it  caused 
was  in  Urwick's  more  constant  presence  at  the  hut,  and 
Gladys's  absence. 

A  few  weeks  later  it  happened  that  Mr.  Manly  dined 
at  the  same  house  with  his  bishop,  in  a  neighbouring 
town. 

"  I  had  thought  I  should  meet  you  here,  Manly,"  said 
his  lordship,  "  and  I  have  brought  a  letter  with  me  about 
which  I  wish  to  ask  your  help.  It  is  from  a  lady  in 
England ;  she  says  that  she  has  reason  to  think  that  her 
sister's  son  —  not  a  young  man,  by  her  description  —  is 
in  Canada,  and  in  your  county." 


THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.  75 

"Can  you  let  me  see  the  letter?"  said  Mr.  Manly, 
with  quick  interest. 

Before  he  opened  it,  he  knew  that  the  name  signed 
would  be  "  Harriet  Eleanore  Grey." 

The  letter  requested  that  the  bishop  would  notify  the 
writer  if  he  found  the  man  still  living,  as  in  the  event 
of  his  death  the  question  of  a  title  was  involved. 

"  No  other  news  of  him  can  now  hold  anything  but 
pain  for  his  family,"  the  letter  ended. 

Mr.  Manly  returned  it  with  a  sigh  of  disappointment. 

"  It  is  like  seeking  a  needle  in  a  haystack,  I  fear,"  said 
the  bishop. 

"No,"  answered  Mr.  Manly;  "this  world  seems  but 
little  larger  than  an  apple  sometimes.  I  do  know  the 
man,  and  know  him  too  well  to  betray  him ;  but  1  will 
undertake  to  notify  you  should  anything  happen  to  him, 
which  I  should  wish  a  time  far  off,  were  he  any  less 
unhappy  than  I  think  he  is." 

"  They  are  a  wicked,  hard,  cruel  people,"  said  Mrs. 
Manly,  when  she  heard  the  story. 

But  her  husband  stirred  his  library  fire  reflectively, 
before  he  answered :  "1  don't  know ;  remorse  is  not 
repentance.  The  whole  thing  is  mysterious,  and  1  have 
no  judgment  in  the  matter." 

The  winter  had  set  in  bitterly  cold  that  year ;  the 
lake  froze  over  so  hard  and  deep  that  a  team  of  oxen 
was  driven  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other  in  safety. 
There  came  some  days  when  it  was  impossible  for 
Urwick  to  go  to  the  hut  through  the  snow  and  ice. 
One  morning,  after  having  been  weather-bound  in  this 
way  for  some  time,  he  came  home  with  a  frightened 
expression  on  his  face. 


76  THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 

"  My  Gentleman -in -Plush  is  very  ill,"  he  said  in  an 
awe-struck  voice ;  "  will  you  go  to  him,  Papa  ?  He 
can't  get  out  of  bed." 

Mr.  Manly  went,  but  returned  to  his  house  almost 
immediately  to  order  that  the  doctor  should  be  sent  for, 
and  that  warm  bedding  and  stimulants  should  be  carried 
to  the  hut. 

"  1  am  afraid  Plush  is  a  very  ill  man,"  he  said ;  "  it  looks 
like  pneumonia,  and  he  has  exposed  himself  recklessly." 

When  the  doctor  came  his  opinion  bore  out  this 
theory.  The  Gentleman-in-Plush  was  very  ill.  But 
toward  evening  Mr.  Manly  came  home  with  a  better 
report ;  he  had  left  the  physician  and  a  servant  in 
charge. 

"  1  shall  go  down  later  and  spend  the  night,"  he  said. 
"There  seems  no  present  danger." 

Urwick,  who  had  been  wandering  miserably  about  the 
house  all  day,  asking  persistently,  "  Is  my  Gentleman-in- 
Plush  dying  ? "  went  to  bed  comforted. 

They  thought  him  fast  asleep  when  a  hurried  summons 
came  from  the  hut ;  there  had  been  a  sudden  sinking  of 
the  patient's  vital  forces,  and  the  worst  might  be  feared. 

"  Let  me  go  with  you,"  entreated  Mrs.  Manly ;  "  he 
can  hardly  resent  it  now,  and  he  has  been  so  good  to  our 
boy." 

Mr.  Manly  assented ;  but  when,  cloaked  for  her  walk, 
Mrs.  Manly  joined  him  in  the  hall,  she  was  looking  more 
troubled  and  distressed  than  before. 

"  You  must  go  to  Urwick  ;  I  can  do  nothing  with  him. 
He  heard  us  talking,  and  insists  on  going  with  us.  I 
thought  him  half  asleep  when  he  came  stumbling  into  my 
room.  1  have  never  seen  him  like  this  before." 


THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.  77 

"  Do  you  go  down  with  the  servant,"  her  husband 
answered ;  "  I  will  follow  you." 

He  found  Urwick  sitting  on  the  floor  of  his  room  in 
his  nightgown.  He  was  sobbing  bitterly  as  he  struggled 
with  his  shoes  and  stockings. 

"  1  w-will  go ;  I  promised,"  he  cried  when  he  saw  his 
father. 

The  stammer  which  his  friend  had  taught  him  to  con 
trol  came  back  in  his  excitement.  He  stood  up  and 
stamped  his  small  foot  and  clenched  his  hands. 

His  father  lifted  him  in  his  great  arms  and  held  him 
firmly  ;  he  hardly  recognized  the  gentle  little  fellow  in 
this  frantic  child  who  struggled  and  almost  struck  him. 

"  I  will  go, —  I  w-will.  I  promised  the  G-Gentleman- 
in-Plush, —  I  promised." 

"  What  did  you  promise,  Urwick  ?  Stop  struggling, 
my  boy,  and  speak  slowly." 

The  steady  strength  of  his  father's  clasp  and  voice  had 
their  influence. 

"  I  promised ;  1-long  ago  I  promised.  I  promised  I 
would  come  to  him  wherever  1  was  if  he  were  dying,  and 
I  heard  my  mother  say  he  was  dying  now." 

"  1  hope  not ;  but  if  you  have  made  a  promise  you 
must  run  no  risk  of  breaking  it.  And  you  must  stop 
crying,  you  know,  before  you  can  go.  Can  you  dress 
yourself  ? " 

But  though  Urwick  asserted  that  he  could,  his  father 
stayed  by  him,  steadying  the  quivering  nerves  by  word 
and  touch,  unconsciously  laying  in  those  moments  the 
foundations  of  an  understanding  between  himself  and  that 
most  delicate  and  difficult  of  all  created  things,  a  sensitive 
child's  heart. 


78  THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 

When,  half  an  hour  later,  Mrs.  Manly  opened  the  door 
of  the  hut,  and  her  husband  entered,  covered  with  the  fine 
flecks  of  the  falling  snow,  he  had  on  his  back  what  she 
at  first  thought  was  a  bundle  of  shawls ;  but  when  he  set 
it  down  before  her,  she  discovered  that  Urwick  was  the 
core  of  the  roll. 

"Did  you  think  it  wise  to  bring  him?"  she  asked, 
dismayed. 

"  It  was  because  1  promised,  Mamma,"  said  the  child, 
eagerly.  And  Mrs.  Manly,  who  rarely  questioned  her 
husband's  decisions,  said  no  more. 

The  screen  had  been  taken  down,  and  the  Gentleman - 
in-Plush  lay  on  his  bed  with  his  eyes  closed.  The 
physician  was  preparing  to  leave. 

"  It  is  stupor,"  he  said ;  "  he  will  not  rouse  from  it,  I 
think  ;  but  should  he  do  so  there  is  nothing  to  do  or  say 
that  Mrs.  Manly  is  not  better  fitted  for  than  I." 

Urwick  crept  quietly  to  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the  bed, 
and  the  husband  and  wife  talked  in  whispers  at  the  side. 
There  seemed  little  to  do  but  wait. 

Suddenly  the  sick  man  moved,  and  opened  his  eyes. 
"Am  I  dying?"  he  asked  briefly. 

"  I  trust  not,  oh,  I  trust  not,—  not  if  we  can  keep  you 
with  us,"  said  Mrs.  Manly. 

He  looked  full  into  her  kind  face  with  his  strange,  deep 
eyes. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  gently,  then  turned  from  her  to 
her  husband,  and  spoke  with  wonderful  strength  of  voice  ; 
"  You  have  been  kind,  Manly,  and  I  am  going  to  ask  for 
six  feet  more  from  you.  Will  you  let  me  stay  here  in  the 
hut?" 

"  I  want  you  to  stay  in  it  a  live  man,"  said  Mr.  Manly. 
"  Take  this,  Plush." 


THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.  79 

But  the  Gentleman-in-Plush  pushed  the  stimulant 
away. 

"  I  have  written  the  boy's  name  in  the  books,"  he  went 
on ;  "  and,  Manly,  you  remember  a  portfolio  I  once  showed 
you  ?  Bury  it  with  me.  That  is  all."  He  turned  wearily 
away. 

"  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say?  "  asked  Mr.  Manly. 

"Nothing." 

"Think  again.  Is  there  no  message  I  can  send  to  your 
family  ?" 

An  expression  of  ineffable  pain  passed  over  the  drawn 
face ;  the  words  dropped  with  difficulty  from  the  white 
lips. 

"  Nothing  —  I  have  no  kindred,  no  country,  no  hope  — 
nothing." 

His  eyes  closed,  and  they  would  have  thought  the 
stupor  had  returned,  except  that  his  lips  kept  forming  the 
words  :  "  Nothing  —  nothing." 

"  Speak  to  him,  Mabel.  For  God's  sake,  speak  to  him !" 
whispered  Mr.  Manly,  in  a  choked  voice;  and  his  wife, 
with  the  tears  raining  down  her  face,  knelt  by  the  bedside 
and  began  a  prayer. 

The  hand  on  the  coverlid  was  raised  with  an  imperious 
gesture,  and  Mrs.  Manly's  voice  faltered  and  died  away. 

Presently,  when  she  bent  over  him  again,  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  looked  up  into  her  face. 

"Rosalie,'  he  said  wanderingly,  "  Rosalie,  can  it  be 
you?" 

"  He  is  wandering !  "  Mrs.  Manly  exclaimed  pitifully. 
"It  is  his  wife's  name,  perhaps." 

"  Rosalie,"  went  on  the  wandering  voice,  "  why,  they 
told  me  you  were  dead  —  that  you  died  when  — " 


80  THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH. 

"  Urwick,  what  are  you  about  ? "  said  Mr.  Manly, 
sternly. 

The  child  had  crept  upon  the  other  side  of  the  bed, 
and  his  hand  was  on  his  friend's  lips. 

He  wound  his  arm  about  the  neck  of  the  Gentleman  - 
in-Plush,  and  clasped  him  closely  when  his  father  tried 
to  lift  him. 

"  I  promised  —  I  promised,"  he  cried  again. 

Mrs.  Manly  laid  her  hand  on  her  husband's  arm,  and 
drew  him  away. 

"Don't  you  see?"  she  said  through  her  tears.  "He 
has  wished  to  die  as  he  lived.  We  must  let  them  be." 

And  Mr.  Manly,  looking  wonderingly  at  the  strange 
sight,  sat  silently  awaiting  the  end. 

The  night  wore  on,  but  still  the  weary  childish  body 
and  the  ready  little  hand  kept  guard  ;  at  each  murmur 
the  wandering  lips  were  sealed.  The  mother's  heart 
yearned  over  the  eyes  heavy  with  sleep,  and  the  cheeks 
pale  with  the  vigil. 

But  she,  too,  sat  silent  until  the  dying  man  opened 
his  eyes  once  more,  and  looked  with  loving  recognition 
into  the  anxious  child's  face  on  the  pillow  by  him. 

With  an  expression  which  was  in  itself  a  caress,  he 
lifted  the  faithful  little  hand  from  his  lips  and  held  it 
between  his  own. 

"  He  knows  me,  Mamma !  He  will  get  well !  "  cried 
the  boy,  eagerly. 

And  at  that  moment,  with  a  short,  sighing  breath, 
holding  fast  by  the  frail  anchor  of  a  child's  hand,  the 
weary  soul  of  the  Gentleman-in-Plush  passed  away  from 
the  judgments  of  this  world. 

They  buried  him  in  the  hut,  as  he  had  wished,  and 


THE  GENTLEMAN-IN-PLUSH.  81 

his  secret  with  him.  As  there  came  only  a  formal  ac 
knowledgment  from  England  in  response  to  the  bishop's 
announcement  of  his  death,  Mr.  Manly  placed  the  slab 
which  now  lies  over  his  grave.  It  bears  no  name, —  only 
a  date  and  a  line  of  inscription,  — 

"After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well." 


A  TEA-LEAF. 


A  TEA-LEAF. 

A  PSYCHOLOGICAL  STUDY   IN   ONE   ACT. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS  :  MR.  ROBERT  MAY  ;  Miss  LITTELL. 
TIME  :  Miss  LITTELL'S  reception  afternoon,  half -past  Jive  o'clock. 

Curtain  rises  on  a  nineteenth-century  drawing-room,  and  discovers 
Mr.  MAY  sitting  on  a  long,  low  bench  which  runs  in  front  of  a  three- 
cornered  fireplace.  He  sits  with  bis  back  to  the  fire,  and  faces  Miss 
LlTTELL,  who  is  engrossed  in  pouring  fragrant  tea  into  Russian  tea- 
glasses.  A  dainty  triangular  tea-table  stands  at  her  left  hand,  and  a 
hissing  kittle  of  water  hangs  from  a  wrought-iron  crane  over  the  hot 
coals.  Some  confusion  in  the  room  and  the  languor  of  Miss  LlTTELL' S 
manner  betoken  departed  guests. 

MISS  LlTTELL  (poising  a  lump  of  sugar  in  the  stttfiir- 
tongs).  You  take  one  lump  of  sugar,  do  you  not, 
and  lemon  ? 

Mr.  MAY.   No,  not  lemon ;  a  drop  of  cream,  please. 
Miss  LITTELL  (with  rising  inflection).   Cream ! 
Mr  MAY.   Well,  no ;  not  when  you  put  it  in  that  way. 
Don't  look  horrified,  but  give  me  the  lemon. 

Miss  LITTELL.  Not  at  all.  If  you  want  a  flavourless 
dilution,  you  shall  have  it. 

(She  stretches  out  her  hand  toward  the  cream,  but  Mr.  MAY  ends  the 
controversy  by  seizing  the  pitcher  and  placing  it  out  of  her  reach.  He 
helps  himself  to  lemon  with  an  air  of  mock  misery.) 


86  A   TEA-LEAF. 

Mr.  MAY.  Have  all  your  callers  been  so  successfully 
managed  ? 

Miss  LITTELL  (laughing  and  sipping  her  tea).  No ;  no 
one  represented  much  material  for  management  or  amuse 
ment.  Each  was  deplorably  like  the  other,  and  very  cor 
rect  in  type.  One  little  debutante  was  rather  delicious. 
She  told  me  that  she  and  her  brother  had  been  talking 
about  me,  and  under  pressure  it  came  out  that  they  were 
wondering  why  I  did  not  marry.  "  Joe  told  me  he  knew 
you  had  had  lots  of  chances,"  she  said.  I  thought  that 
was  very  kind  of  Joe,  don't  you  ? 

Mr.  MAY.   Very. 

Miss  LITTELL.  1  asked  her  if  Joe  suggested  that  1 
might  prefer  living  with  two  devoted  brothers  to  marry 
ing  one  husband.  "  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  opening  her  eyes; 
"  do  you  really  feel  that  way  ?  How  funny  !  "  Was  n't 
that  charming  ? 

Mr.  MAY  (with  a  perfectly  mirthless  face).   Ha-ha ! 

(Miss  LITTELL  starts  and  looks  at  htm  sharply.  Mr.  MAY  is  silent. 
He  sits  on  the  bench,  and  stares  moodily  over  bis  shoulder  into  the 
fir*) 

Miss  LITTELL  (nervously).  The  room  seems  gloomy ; 
I  must  ring  for  lights. 

(As  she  puts  out  her  band  toward  the  bell,  Mr.  MAY  suddenly  catches 
it  in  both  of  his.) 

Mr.  MAY.  Pray  do  not.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you,  and  even  the  firelight  seems  too  much. 

(He  rises  to  his  feet,  knocking  over  the  fire-irons  in  his  confusion. 
As  be  stoops  to  pick  them  up  Miss  LITTELL  falls  back  in  her  chair, 
staring  at  him  in  dismay.) 

Miss  LITTELL  (aside).  Is  Robert,  my  old  friend  Robert, 
going  to  do  this  thing  ?  Is  our  friendship  to  be  wrecked 


A  TEA-LEAF.  87 

upon  the  old,  keel-worn  rock  ?     Never.     I  will  stop  him 
before  he  begins. 

(She  tries  to  speak,  but  her  tongue  cleaves  to  the  roof  of  her  month.) 

Mr.  MAY.  You  must  have  guessed  —  you  certainly 
know  — 

Miss  LITTELL  (wildly).  No,  no ;  I  don't  know  anything, 
- 1  don't  want  to  know. 

Mr.  MAY  (gloomily  turning  away).  That  won't  alter 
the  fact.  I  have  always  known  that  you  disliked  Mary ; 
but  you  must  have  suspected  our  engagement. 

Miss  LITTELL  (aside  and  faintly).  What  did  I  say! 
(  The  danger  just  brushed  renders  her  voice  tremulous  as 
she  speaks  aloud.)  This  has  been  a  great  shock  to  me, 
Robert,  but  you  know  that  1  wish  you  every  hap  — 

Mr.  MAY.  Stop,  for  Heaven's  sake!  (He  paces  the 
floor  in  agitation.  Suddenly  he  pauses  in  front  of  Miss 
LITTELL,  and  speaks  abruptly.)  Do  you  consider  me  a 
man  devoid  of  any  honourable  instincts  ? 

Miss  LITTELL  (with  emphasis).  I  know  you  to  be  up 
right  and  true-hearted ;  you  are  a  man  of  absolute  honour. 
But  you  thoroughly  bewilder  me,  Robert ;  won't  you  sit 
down  and  tell  me  what  you  mean  ? 

(Mr.  MAY  si/5  down  on  the  low  bench  again,  and  looks  up  at  her.) 

Mr.  MAY.  What  would  you  say  if  I  should  tell  you 
that  1  am  desperately,  passionately  in  love  with  two  women 
to-night  ? 

Miss  LITTELL  (promptly}.  I  should  say  that  I  trustad  1 
was  not  one  of  them. 

Mr.  MAY.  I  am  not  laughing.  You  must  listen  seri 
ously.  1  am  very  unhappy. 

Miss  LITTELL.   I  should  think  you  might  be.    Most 


88  A  TEA-LEAF. 

people  can  get  all  the  misery  they  want  out  of  one  love 
affair  at  a  time.  Mary  is  one  of  the  girls,  of  course  ;  and 
who  is  the  other  ?  (After  a  silence  Miss  LITTELL  says 
slowly.)  Not  Elizabeth,  surely !  You  would  not  have 
dared  to  drag  her  into  folly  of  this  sort. 

Mr.  MAY.  There 's  no  height  of  daring  or  depth  of 
folly  which  1  have  not  tried. 

Miss  LITTELL  (still  incredulous).  What  are  you 
going  to  do  about  it  ?  As  you  are  engaged  to  Mary,  1 
gather  that  she  is  the  one  you  mean  to  marry. 

Mr.  MAY.   Never  while  I  live. 

Miss  LITTELL.  Then,  if  you  don't  mean  to  marry 
her,  would  you  mind  telling  me  why  you  are  engaged  to 
her? 

Mr.  MAY  (briefly).   Because  I  love  her. 

Miss  LITTELL  (with  mild  sarcasm).  I  am  afraid  I  am 
very  stupid,  Robert  ;  but,  really,  I  cannot  understand.  Is 
it  that  you  love  Mary  and  won't  marry  her,  and  will 
marry  Elizabeth  and  don't  love  her?  It  is  all  very 
confusing. 

Mr.  MAY  (laughing  miserably).  Don't  jeer  at  me. 
I  am  fallen  low  enough,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  LITTELL.  Have  you  been  making  love  to  both 
girls,  Robert  ?  Don't  tell  me  that. 

Mr.  MAY.  No,  no ;  I  loved  Elizabeth  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul,  long  before  I  ever  saw  Mary.  I  never  told 
her  so,  for  1  thought  it  useless;  and  Mary  — 

«Miss  LITTELL.  Mary  assured  you  that  it  was  —  1 
understand. 

Mr.  MAY.  It  was  never  done  directly.  I  did  not  dream 
that  she  suspected  my  feeling  for  Elizabeth.  Among  a 
hundred  other  things,  she  repeated  one  remark  of  Eliza- 


A  TEA-LEAF.  89 

beth's  which  was  simple  enough  in  itself,  but  certainly 
conclusive. 

Miss  LITTELL.  Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  Mary 
repeated  ? 

Mr.  MAY  (with  embarrassment}.  It  sounds  silly  in 
the  repetition,  and  yet  it  finally  convinced  me. 

Miss  LITTELL  (gently  persistent).  Can't  you  tell  me 
what  it  was  ? 

Mr.  MAY  (with  an  effort).  Oh,  yes.  She  said  no 
power  could  induce  her  to  marry  a  man  with  big  ears. 

Miss  LITTELL  (vainly  struggling  against  her  laug\> 
ter).  Oh,  Robert,  .Robert !  I  did  not  know  your  vanity 
was  as  great  as  your  ears. 

Mr.  MAY  (earnestly).  It  was  not  a  question  of  vanity. 
I  thought  no  woman  could  speak  in  that  manner  of  the 
man  she  cared  for. 

Miss  LITTELL.  Then  you  knew  nothing  about  women. 

Mr.  MAY.  Nothing  whatever,  it  seems.  I  have  been 
learning,  yesterday  and  to-day,  though. 

Miss  LITTELL.  You  poor  fellow !  the  primer  is  blotted 
with  tears,  I  am  afraid.  And  you  think  now  that  Elizabeth 
did  love  you  ? 

Mr.  MAY.   Mary  told  me  last  night  that  she  did. 

Miss  LITTELL.  Told  you  that  Elizabeth  loved  you  ? 

Mr.  MAY  (bitterly).  Yes ;  she  seemed  to  think  it  would 
give  me  pleasure  to  hear  that  she  had  won  me,  as  it  were. 
She  said  that  Elizabeth's  remark  had  been  made  playfully, 
in  answer  to  some  teasing  allusions,  but  that  it  had  not 
deceived  her.  She  had  guessed  the  truth  from  the  first. 
She  told  me  all  this  in  a  kind  of  triumph  ;  it  was  horrible. 
I  broke  away  from  her,  and  rushed  out  of  the  house.  If 
she  had  confessed  it  to  me  in  repentance,  if  she  had  been 


90  A   TEA-LEAF. 

anything  but  radiantly  triumphant  and  laughing,  1  could 
have  borne  it  —  have  forgiven  it. 

Miss  LITTELL  (after  a  pause).  There  is  but  one  thing 
for  you  to  do,  of  course. 

Mr.  MAY  (eagerly).   What  ? 

Miss  LITTELL.  You  have  broken  your  engagement  with 
Mary.  Elizabeth  is  a  pearl  among  women. 

Mr.  MAY.  1  know  what  you  mean;  but  how  is  it 
possible  ? 

Miss  LITTELL.   Why  impossible  ?    You  love  her  ? 

Mr.  MAY.  Who  ? 

Miss  LITTELL.   Elizabeth. 

Mr.  MAY.  That  is  just  what  I  came  to  ask  you  ? 

Miss  LITTELL.  You  came  to  ask  me  if  you  loved 
Elizabeth  ? 

Mr.  MAY.  Yes;  which  woman  do  I  love?  I  pledge 
you  my  honour  —  if  1  have  a  shred  of  it  left  —  that  I  do 
not  know.  1  have  not  broken  my  engagement  with  Mary 
yet ;  1  have  not  seen  her  since  yesterday.  When  I  think 
of  her  moral  perversion,  her  inability  to  see  her  almost 
crime,  I  am  filled  with  horror.  And  then  I  think  of  her 
—  well,  you  see  1  have  been  engaged  to  her  for  a  month. 
There  is  a  great  deal  1  could  never  forget ;  I  've  been  in  a 
fool's  paradise. 

Miss  LITTELL.  And  Elizabeth,  whom  you  have  loved 
so  long,  who  is — Robert,  you  know  what  she  is.  Think 
what  it  would  mean  to  live  out  your  life  with  her ! 

Mr.  MAY.  Ah,  do  I  not  know!  You  can  tell  me  noth 
ing  of  her.  I  know  that  I  love  her,  that  I  worship  her ; 
and  yet  —  I  am  an  absolute  scoundrel ;  1  love  them  both ; 
I  told  you  so  in  the  beginning'. 

Miss  LITTELL.   And  you  told  me  you  liked  cream  in 


A  TEA-LEAF.  91 

your  'tea  in  the  beginning,  also.  Be  advised ;  you  will 
never  forget  this  act  of  Mary's. 

Mr.  MAY.   No,  never ;   nor  her,  either. 

Miss  LITTELL.  Then,  if  that  is  the  way  you  feel 
toward  Mary,  by  all  means  marry  her. 

Mr.  MAY.  When  I  adore  the  ground  another  woman 
walks  on  —  love  and  respect  the  very  hem  of  her 
gown ! 

Miss  LITTELL  (impatiently}.  Robert,  would  you  mind 
calling  the  object  of  your  adoration  Ma-Beth  for  con 
venience  sake  ?  My  brain  whirls  in  this  confusion.  I  'm 
but  a  woman,  you  know,  and  the  mind  masculine  has 
phases  which  I  cannot  grasp.  1  really  think  Brigham 
Young  is  the  only  person  who  could  oflfer  you  any 
practical  advice.  If  he  met  many  like  you  I  don't  wonder 
at  his  conclusions. 

Mr.  MAY  (humbly).   Go  on ;   I  deserve  it  all. 

Miss  LITTELL  (somewhat  softened).  Well,  in  your 
case,  perhaps  I  should  be  equally  foolish.  My  mother 
asked  me  yesterday  whether  she  should  buy  me  a  red  or 
a  blue  skirt,  and  1  knew  myself  well  enough  to  say, 
"  Either ;  for  whichever  you  get  1  shall  wish  I  had  the 
other."  I  fear  it  will  be  the  same  with  you. 

Mr.  MAY.  I  wish  this  were  no  more  serious  than  a  mere 
choice  of  petticoats. 

Miss  LITTELL.  Why,  I  thought  a  choice  of  petticoats 
was  just  the  question.  No ;  forgive  me.  1  should  not 
have  laughed  —  it  was  flippant. 

Mr.  MAY  (wearily).  There  is  nothing  to  forgive. 
We  understand  each  other.  You  have  been  kinder  than 
1  deserved  ;  but  1  must  work  it  out  alone.  (He  rises  ami 
takes  her  hand,  boliHii"'  it  in  bis  as  he  speaks.)  Good- 


92  A  TEA-LEAF. 

night.    Try  not  to  think  too  badly  of  me,  and  remember, 
whatever  happens,  our  friendship  stands. 

Miss  LITTELL  (earnestly).  Good-night,  and  do  you 
remember  that  I  know  and  trust  perfectly  you  and  your 
honour.  Whatever  you  decide  to  do,  that  shall  1  approve. 
Good-night. 

(/Is  Mr.  MAY  leaves  the  room  she  sits  listening  to  Ins  retreating  foot 
steps,  and  leans  bet  bead  on  ber  band  in  deep  thought.) 

Miss  LITTELL  (sola).  "  Our  friendship  stands."  Why 
did  he  say  that  ?  Was  there  a  question  of  it  in  his 
mind  ?  (She  pauses,  and  then  springs  to  her  feet  with 
sudden  •vehemence.}  1  have  been  an  abject  fool.  I  should 
have  stopped  his  first  words.  When  a  man  has  once  wept 
upon  a  handkerchief,  what  use  has  he  for  it  again  ?  And 
a  handkerchief  I  have  been  to-night.  Whichever  girl  he 
marries,  he  will  hate  me.  1  know  too  much.  (She  looks 
forlornly  at  the  empty  bench  with  a  little  gesture  of 
renunciation.}  No;  this  is  not  good-night,  Robert;  it 
is  good -by. 

CURTAIN. 


NED. 


NED. 


ND  so,  dear,  you  have  decided  to  name  the  baby 
Ned !  Was  Fred  quite  willing ?  " 

"  It  was  his  own  suggestion.     Please  like  it,  Elizabeth." 

"  I  do  like  it,  little  one  ;  I  love  it,  and  I  love  Fred  for 
suggesting  it." 

As  I  stood  looking  at  the  pretty  maternal  picture  of 
my  sister  Barbara  adoring  her  first-born,  my  heart  was  full 
of  thankfulness  and  my  eyes  were  wet  with  tears.  "Ah, 
my  little  man,"  1  said,  stooping  to  kiss  the  tiny  scrap  of 
humanity,  "if  you  are  brought  up  as  I  think  you  will  be, 
you  shall  be  more  proud  of  your  first  name  than  of  your 
last.  How  you  came  by  it  is  almost  like  a  story."  And 
then  I  suddenly  thought  that,  perhaps,  it  was  a  story ;  so 
here  it  is. 

"  Blessed  is  the  man  that  hath  his  quiver  full  of  them," 
saith  the  Psalmist,  and  1  think  that  even  had  my  father 
been  less  happy  in  his  family  relations,  he  would  have 
striven  to  feel  "blessed,"  in  order  to  fulfil  the  Scriptures. 
For  there  were  twelve  of  us,  all  high-spirited  and  running 
over  with  mischief.  1,  Elizabeth,  was  the  eldest  daughter, 
and  Barbara,  who  was  ten  years  younger,  the  most  beauti 
ful  and  the  favourite. 


96  NED. 

Why  none  of  us  were  jealous  of  Barbara,  I  am  sure  I 
do  not  know;  perhaps  it  was  because  we  all  united  in 
spoiling  her.  She  was  the  only  delicate  baby  my  mother 
ever  had,  and  this  naturally  caused  a  difference  in  the 
beginning;  but  had  it  not  been  this,  some  other  reason 
would  have  presented  itself. 

Winning  ways  were  not  lacking  in  Barbara,  and  as 
child  and  woman  she  was  most  perfectly  beautiful  in  face 
and  form,  although  some  few,  who  had  not  fallen  under 
the  witchery  of  her  personality,  maintained  that  she  was 
too  small,  too  fairylike,  —  that  the  soft  golden  hair  was 
too  fluffy  and  luxuriant. 

Small  Barbara  might  be,  but  the  erect  little  body  was 
the  storage-house  of  a  spirit  and  fire  sufficient  for  a  dozen 
ordinary  mortals.  Her  pretty,  imperious  ways  gained  for 
her  the  title  of  "  Princess"  with  father  and  the  boys.  My 
mother  disliked  the  name,  thinking  it  not  good  for  Bar 
bara  ;  and  we  girls  never  used  it,  for  quite  another  reason. 
It  was  our  small  and  only  stand  against  the  absolute 
monarchy. 

But  when  she  was  about  four  years  old,  another  subject 
was  added  to  Barbara's  list,  —  one  who  was  to  outstrip  all 
others  in  loyal  devotion ;  and  this  was  Ned,  —  black,  savage, 
untamable  Ned. 

His  mother  was  a  full-blooded  African  who  had  been 
purchased  by  our  uncle,  the  owner  of  a  large  plantation 
in  Virginia.  He  bought  her  with  her  baby  in  her  arms, 
from  pure  compassion,  he  said ;  for  she  was  as  untamed 
as  a  savage,  and  evidently  untamable, —  utterly  useless  to 
her  Florida  master,  who  was  trying  to  subdue  her  by 
methods  of  which  we  were  spared  the  recital.  But  the 
change  of  masters  came  to  her  too  late ;  though  her 


NED.  97 

spirit  was  unbroken,  it  was  so  bruised  and  festered  as 
to  render  her  death  no  surprise  when  it  occurred  some 
months  later. 

The  child,  whose  name  was  Ned,  was  brought  up  in 
the  quarters  with  the  other  negro  children.  He  de 
veloped  early  a  wild  and  lawless  spirit ;  and  when  he 
was  put  into  the  field  to  work,  the  overseer  complained 
constantly  that  he  was  a  leader  among  the  slaves  and, 
thoroughly  insubordinate.  My  uncle's  attention  thus 
called  in  his  direction,  he  found  Ned  a  man  of  twenty- 
two  years,  superbly  built  and  apparently  as  complete  a 
savage  as  his  mother. 

Remembering  her  history,  my  uncle  determined  to 
make  no  attempt  to  break  the  lad's  spirit.  He  wrote  at 
once  to  my  mother,  telling  her  the  whole  story  and 
saying  that  as  he  found  Ned  responded  to  kindness,  he 
felt  sure  that  there  was  the  making  of  a  magnificent  ser 
vant  in  him.  He  ended  by  begging  my  mother  to  accept 
him,  and  give  him  the  individual  attention  that  his 
bachelor  home  could  not  afford,  adding  that  if  the  boy 
proved  too  much  for  her,  he  could  be  returned. 

Mother  and  father  talked  the  matter  over;  and  the 
end  of  it  was,  Ned  came.  He  was  almost  a  giant,  quite 
six  feet  four,  but  too  perfectly  proportioned  to  show 
his  full  height,  and  lithe  and  active  as  a  panther. 

My  mother  decided  to  train  him  as  a  waiter.  He 
learned  rapidly ;  and  though  at  first  he  lifted  barrels  of 
flour  with  ease  and  trembled  under  a  glass  of  water,  he 
soon  waited  with  a  really  stately  elegance.  The  strange 
ness  of  the  new  home  and  surroundings  kept  the  old 
lawless  spirit  in  check  ;  but  familiarity  bred  the  usual 
contempt,  and  in  a  few  weeks  Ned  was  king  of  the 

7 


98  NED. 

kitchen  as  absolutely  as  he  had  been  king  of  the  Virginia 
plantation. 

Possibly  this  spirit  was  an  inheritance,  undoubtedly 
his  appearance  bore  out  the  supposition ;  and  perhaps 
from  the  same  source  sprang  the  wild  gusts  of  rage 
which  seemed  to  possess  him  and  sweep  him  along  resist - 
lessly.  Mother  remonstrated  gently,  then  sternly  and 
repeatedly,  all  in  vain. 

Pandemonium  seemed  to  have  broken  loose  in  the 
region  below  stairs.  Early  one  morning  the  climax  came. 
An  uproar  such  as  never  was  heard  before  rose  from  the 
kitchen,  causing  my  father's  hasty  appearance  there  for  the 
first  time  in  many  years.  Huddled  in  one  corner  were 
the  frightened  negroes,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
towered  Ned,  holding  the  group  in  subjection;  some 
trifle  had  irritated  him,  and  this  was  the  consequence. 

Father  was  beyond  measure  angry, — so  angry  that 
Ned's  rage  paled  before  his.  He  told  the  rather  sobered 
negro  that  he  would  stand  no  more;  kindness  had  failed 
with  him,  and  he  should  now  have  the  whipping  he 
richly  deserved. 

"  Not  to  be  given  by  me,  however,"  he  added ;  "  the 
constable  shall  do  it,  and  1  mean  to  send  for  him  to  take 
you  away  at  once." 

So  saying,  my  father  left  the  house  in  a  white  heat. 
But  he  was  unused  to  interfering  in  what  he  considered 
his  wife's  department,  and  was  also  a  man  of  quick  wrath 
and  quicker  forgetf ulness ;  and  becoming  absorbed  in  im 
portant  matters  of  business,  he  spent  no  further  thought 
on  Ned  or  his  misconduct. 

It  was  not  thus  at  home.  So  severe  a  measure  had 
never  before  been  resorted  to,  and  we  were  all  unhappy. 


NED.  99 

Mother  alone,  and  probably  because  she  knew  what  man 
ner  of  man  our  father  was,  remained  as  placid  as  ever, 
as  she  sat  in  the  nursery  sewing. 

Her  placidity  was  to  be  rudely  interrupted.  There 
was  a  sudden  patter  of  feet  in  the  hall,  a  scramble  up  the 
stairway,  and  Aunt  Tilly,  the  black  cook  and  whilcm 
ruler  of  the  kitchen,  rushed 'into  the  room. 

"  Dat  nigger  gwine  ter  kill  somebody  yit !  "  she  wailed. 
"  He  done  shet  hise'f  up  in  de  garret  wid  de  meat-axe 
and  ole  marse's  razor,  an'  he  got  all  de  knives  what  he 
wor  a-cleanin',  an'  he  say  dar  sha'n'  be  no  po'  white 
trash  sont  fer  to  whip  him ;  dat  he  gwine  ter  kill  de 
fust  pusson  dat  set  foot  over  de  do'  sill." 

Two  bright,  hard  spots  of  colour  rose  in  my  mother's 
cheeks  as  she  listened;  but  her  manner  was  unhurried 
as  she  quilted  her  needle  into  her  work,  and  shook  off 
the  threads  from  her  dress  into  the  open  fireplace.  With 
her  usual  even  pace  she  walked  out  of  the  room  and  up 
the  stairway,  we  children,  with  the  servants  who  had 
gathered  in  the  hall,  stringing  after  her.  On  she  went 
to  the  partially  closed  garret-door;  there  she  paused. 

"  Ned." 

There  was  no  answer. 

Raising  her  hand,  my  mother  struck  the  door  lightly 
with  her  palm,  throwing  it  wide  open,  and  disclosing 
Ned,  who  stood  before  it.  All  the  savage  was  up  and 
looking  out  of  the  dark,  scowling  face,  the  bloodshot 
eyes,  the  drawn  lips.  His  body  was  thrown  back,  and 
in  one  hand,  raised  above  his  head,  he  held  the  axe,  in 
the  other  flashed  the  razor. 

The  servants  crowded  behind  each  other  with  smoth 
ered  cries ;  but  mother,  with  her  beautiful,  proud  head 


100  NED. 

thrown  back  stepped  over  the  threshold.  She  was  slightly 
and  delicately  made,  yet,  as  she  stood  opposite  the  huge 
negro,  her  figure  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  her  cheeks 
brilliant,  her  eyes  flashing  defiance  into  his,  she  rose 
above  the  question  of  brawn  and  muscle  to  become  his 
full  equal  in  power, — but  no  more. 

The  inflexible  blue  eyes  and  the  passionate  black  ones 
looked  unflinchingly  into  each  other  for  what  seemed  to 
me  an  age.  And  then  suddenly  my  mother's  whole 
figure  seemed  to  relax ;  the  scornful,  curling  lips  half 
smiled;  the  blue  eyes  looked  infinitely  soft  and  pity 
ing.  She  stepped  swiftly  to  Ned's  side,  and  laid  her 
gentle  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  poor  boy,"  she  said  softly,  "  why  will  you  do 
so  ? " 

Wonder  drove  passion  from  the  dark  face;  wonder 
held  Ned  spellbound,  as  my  mother  took  the  weapons 
from  his  unresisting  hands.  But  when  she  bade  him 
return  to  his  work,  he  seemed  to  awake,  and  darting  a 
furious  glance  around,  he  rushed  headlong  from  the  room 
and  down  the  stairs.  Then  something  happened  which 
I  cannot  think  of  even  now  without  a  darting  sense  of 
horror.  Half-way  up  the  stairs  stood  little  Barbara; 
her  nurse  had  deserted  her,  and  she  was  following  after. 

Spreading  out  her  tiny  arms,  she  blocked  Ned's  way. 
"  You  is  dot  to  tarry  me  down  'tairs,"  she  cried  in  her 
sweet  treble.  "  I  hurted  my  foot,  and  I  are  n't  a-doin' 
to  walk." 

Ned  stopped  and  hesitated.  1  sprang  forward,  but 
mother,  her  face  as  pale  as  her  kerchief,  held  my  arm  in 
an  iron  grasp.  1  turned  sick  and  faint ;  everything  swam 
before  my  eyes,  and  when  I  could  see  again,  it  was 


NED.  101 

a  strange  sight  that  awaited  me.  Barbara  was  sitting 
high  in  Ned's  arms,  singing  a  little  tune  to  herself,  and 
beating  time  upon  his  woolly  head. 

He  carried  her  down  the  stairs,  straight  to  the  wood- 
room,  where  they  spent  the  rest  of  the  morning.  One 
minute  Ned  was  sawing  wood  furiously,  and  the  next 
he  was  sitting  with  Barbara  on  his  knee,  delighting  her 
heart  by  strange  stories  and  games.  Mother  made  me 
peep  in  occasionally,  but  would  not  allow  them  to  be 
disturbed. 

"  The  child  is  doing  him  good,"  she  said. 

At  last  the  nursery  door  opened  softly,  and  Ned  entered 
with  Barbara  cradled  in  his  arms  sound  asleep.  He  laid 
her  in  the  crib,  covering  her  carefully,  tenderly  soothing 
her  when  she  half  woke,  and  then  left  the  room  with 
noiseless  step. 

The  battle  was  over.  Ned  had  found  his  master, 
and  that  master  was  a  baby. 

There  was  never  any  real  trouble  with  Ned  after  this. 
He  now  had  a  motive  for  good  behaviour,  and  lived  in 
deadly  fear  of  being  sent  back  to  Virginia,  away  from 
"  de  fiddle-string  of  his  heart,  his  Miss  Princess." 

When  he  felt  his  old  rages  coming  on,  he  used  simply 
to  depart,  where,  we  never  knew;  sometimes  he  was 
gone  for  one  day,  sometimes  for  two.  My  mother  wisely 
forebore  asking  questions ;  and  when  we  children  did  so, 
he  would  invariably  reply  gravely, — 

"  1  was  sont  fur  suddint  to  go  to  the  Islant  of  Dardan 
elles  fur  to  wait  on  my  Lord  Concarson." 

Barbara  never  had  one  atom  of  curiosity,  so  she  never 
inquired  unless  we  put  her  up  to  it ;  but  even  then  we  got 
no  satisfaction.  Ned  would  pick  her  up  and  carry  her 
off,  saying,— 


102  NED. 

"  Yes,  honey;  Ned 's  gwine  to  tell  Miss  Princess  all  'bout 
it,  —  jes'  you  come  wid  me." 

But  on  her  return  we  could  never  gather  that  she  knew 
any  more  than  we  did ;  Barbara  was  so  easily  distracted, 
and  so  lacking  in  any  desire  for  knowledge. 

In  one  respect  Ned  was  very  considerate.  He  never 
disappeared  if  guests  were  expected,  and  on  one  occasion 
he  even  returned  hastily  on  remembering  a  dinner-party. 

"  Jes'  s'pose  I  hed  'a'  gone  on  disrememberin'  dis  here 
party,"  I  heard  him  say  to  Aunt  Tilly.  "  Dere  ain'  one  o' 
you  niggers  as  knows  how  even  to  set  de  table,  and  when 
it  come  to  waitin'  —  Lord!  I  jes'  run  back  like  a  har  soon 
as  I  come  to  think  'bout  it.  I  ain'  stop  to  take  breff." 

But  these  departures  became  less  and  less  frequent,  as 
his  adoration  of  Barbara  grew  stronger. 

It  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  the  two  together.  Bar 
bara's  manner  was  as  if  graciously  permitting  affection, 
while  Ned's  was  that  of  actual  worship.  Her  first  remark 
on  seeing  him  was  always,  "  1  wants  to  be  tarried ;"  and 
Ned  knew  no  higher  happiness  than  holding  her  curled  up 
in  his  great  arm. 

I  think  she  enjoyed  the  sense  of  his  powerful  strength. 
A  great  deal  of  his  work  was  done  thus  encumbered  ;  but 
as  Ned  could  set  a  table  better  with  one  hand  than  any  one 
else  with  two,  he  was  allowed  to  do  as  he  chose. 

He  was  Barbara's  willing  slave,  —  a  slave  whom  no 
Emancipation  Act  could  liberate,  though  Ned  himself  was 
a  great  Abolitionist,  and  fond  of  making  speeches  upon 
the  subject  in  the  kitchen.  My  father  had  some  misgiv 
ings  about  slave-holding  also ;  and  I  think  Ned  divined  the 
truth  when  he  said ,  — 

"  Ole  Mass',  he  done  give  Aunt  Tilly  her  freedom  for 


NED.  103 

a  Christmas  gif .  I  guess  his  cornscience  been  a-bearin' 
down  on  him." 

But,  however  undecided  were  my  father's  politics,  Ned's 
opinions  were  very  definitely  settled ;  and  yet  one  small 
incident  that  occurred  in  the  first  year  of  our  Civil  Wai- 
was  to  make  him  bitterly  opposed  to  all  that  he  had  pre 
viously  held  dear. 

When  the  war  broke  out,  Barbara  was  eight  years  old, 
and  going  to  school  with  me.  I  was  to  leave  at  the  end 
of  the  year.  Our  city  was  on  the  border  line  and  con 
stantly  full  of  soldiers ;  so  my  mother  preferred  to  send 
Ned  to  and  from  school  with  us.  But  one  day  we  were 
dismissed  a  few  minutes  earlier  than  usual,  and  1  started 
home  alone  with  my  little  sister. 

When  only  a  square  from  our  door,  we  met  a  Union 
soldier  walking  toward  us.  He  looked  admiringly  at 
Barbara,  and  then  stopped. 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  kiss,  my  pretty  bird  ? "  he  said. 

Barbara  shrank  to  my  side,  speechless  with  terror.  1 
do  not  believe  the  man  meant  to  frighten  her ;  he  was  a 
mild-looking  little  fellow,  and  probably  had  children  of 
his  own  at  home ;  but  he  stopped  and  lifted  Barbara  high 
in  the  air  to  steal  the  wished-for  kiss. 

That  kiss  he  never  got;  for  she  was  suddenly  seized 
and  whisked  out  of  his  hands  and  over  his  head,  to  his 
infinite  astonishment.  Ned  was  on  the  way  to  meet  us, 
and  had  flown  to  the  rescue. 

It  was  well  for  the  little  soldier,  and  perhaps  well 
for  Ned  also,  that  Barbara  required  all  of  her  faithful  ser 
vant's  soothing  and  attention.  But  from  that  moment 
Ned's  horror  of  "  dem  Yanks  "  knew  no  bounds ;  and 
hatred  of  them  included  a  hatred  of  their  principles.  His 


104  NED. 

speeches  in  the  kitchen  veered  in  doctrine  with  an  alarming 
suddenness. 

He  had  things  his  own  way,  as  usual;  for  the  men 
were  afraid  of  him,  and  the  maids  admired  him.  Aunt 
Tilly  alone  spoke  her  mind,  and  I  heard  her  do  it  from  my 
up-stairs  window. 

"  You  was  a-talkin'  de  oder  side  of  yer  mouf,"  she 
said,  as  she  hopped  up  and  down  in  her  vain  endeavour  to 
throw  a  dripping  sheet  over  the  high  clothes-line  in  the 
yard.  "  You  was  a-sayin'  dere  warn't  no  right  in  a-holdin' 
de  slaves." 

Ned  took  the  sheet  from  her  with  a  contemptuous 
kindness,  and  slung  it  over  the  line. 

"  Dat  was  before  I  knowed,"  he  answered  coolly ;  and 
then,  emphasizing  his  remark  by  driving  down  the  clothes 
pins,  he  added  impressively,  "  dat  's  what  niggers  was 
made  fur." 

The  year  1865  was  soon  to  prove  that  Ned  and  many 
others  were  mistaken.  But  we  children  cared  little  for 
this  or  anything  else  that  did  not  directly  concern  us ;  and 
so  the  years  of  childhood  slipped  away  with  only  enough 
shadow  about  them  to  throw  out  the  sunlight  more 
strongly,  and  when  Barbara's  seventeenth  birthday  came 
it  was  to  find  us  children  yet  in  many  ways.  Barbara  was 
still  the  "  Princess,"  and  Ned  was,  if  possible,  more  than 
ever  her  captive.  The  great  change  was  that  Baibara  was 
engaged  to  be  married,  and  engaged  to  a  Northerner  who 
had  lately  settled  among  us,  —  a  Mr.  Damer,  soon  known 
to  all  of  us  as  "  Fred ; "  for  formality  was  not  possible 
with  one  of  his  sunny  nature  and  kind  heart. 

Except  for  her  extreme  youth,  I  think  we  all  were 
satisfied  with  Barbara's  engagement,  Ned  alone  excepted. 


NED.  105 

That  Barbara  should  marry  anybody  was  bad  enough; 
but  that  she  should  marry  one  of  "dem  Yanks"  was 
intolerable. 

He  waited  on  Fred  at  table  with  undisguised  disgust, 
muttering  and  shaking  his  head  behind  his  back  at  every 
opportunity,  invariably  beginning  to  wait  on  him  from  the 
right  side,  and  just  as  Fred  adjusted  himself  to  the  awk 
wardness,  rushing  around  to  the  left.  It  really  amounted 
to  a  petty  persecution,  which  kept  the  children  in  delighted 
spasms  of  laughter  and  me  in  misery.  My  mother  could 
not  see  from  behind  her  tea-urn  what  was  going  on,  and 
my  father  never  saw  or  heard  anything.  But  at  last  Ned 
undertook  to  slap  down  as  a  gauntlet  each  plate  and  dish 
before  his  foe,  and  his  mutterings  began  to  grow  audible. 
One  day,  on  seeing  Fred  pay  some  little  attention  to 
mother,  he  spoke  too  loud  for  further  ignoring. 

"  I  sees  yer,  I  sees  yer,  'deed  I  does ;  throwing  cobs 
at  the  cow,  is  yer?  Yes,  to  make  de  ca'f  take  notice. 
Yer  don'  git  dis  yer  ca'f,  ef  Ned  kin  help  it,  —  naw,  sir." 

This  was  too  much ;  my  patience  was  exhausted,  and  1 
complained  to  father. 

At  the  next  meal  my  remonstrance  took  effect.  Just 
as  Ned  was  indulging  in  an  unusually  horrible  contortion 
of  his  visage,  and  as  my  delighted  brother  John  was  stuff 
ing  all  of  his  handkerchief  into  his  mouth,  my  father 
looked  up  suddenly,  and  bent  his  white  brows  on  Ned 
until  they  met  in  a  straight  line  over  his  blue  eyes.  Thus 
he  continued  to  gaze  at  him  until  the  embarrassed  negro 
managed  to  get  himself  out  of  the  room.  Then  turning 
to  the  now  sober  John,  father  significantly  motioned  to 
the  door,  through  which  the  scared  boy  escaped,  glad  to 
get  off  so  easily. 


106  NED. 

My  father  never  used  unnecessary  words;  and  as  he 
knew  none  were  needed  to  meet  this  occasion,  none  were 
said,  and  at  least  outward  peace  reigned  until  the  first 
lover's  quarrel  arose.  Then  Ned  was  one  broad  grin ;  he 
seemed  to  scent  danger  for  the  hated  intruder,  and  he 
hung  about  Barbara,  perfectly  happy  in  the  fact  that  she, 
as  in  her  childish  troubles,  seemed  to  prefer  his  constant 
attendance  to  anything  else. 

I  was  never  quite  able  to  make  out  what  this  quarrel 
was  about,  though  it  lasted  several  days ;  but  it  was  not 
difficult  to  see  that  Barbara  was  behaving  like  the  spoiled 
baby  she  was,  and  that  Fred  was  very  patient,  —  more 
patient  than  I  for  him,  for  at  last,  finding  Barbara  alone  in 
the  library,  1  administered  the  good  round  scolding  that  1 
thought  she  needed.  Unused  as  she  was  to  any  harshness, 
it  did  not  take  long  to  reduce  her  to  floods  of  tears ;  and 
she  was  sobbing  her  heart  out  apparently,  when  Fred 
entered  the  room. 

As  I  closed  the  library  door  behind  me  two  minutes 
after  his  entrance,  it  was  with  the  fixed  opinion,  which  I 
have  seen  no  reason  to  alter  since,  that  the  male  or  female 
who  attempts  to  interfere  with  even  the  potentially 
married  is  a  fool.  What  conclusions  the  lovers  came 
to  in  their  prolonged  reconciliation,  1  do  not  know. 
When  we  all  met  in  the  drawing-room  in  the  evening, 
Barbara  appeared  her  old  bewitching  self,  supremely 
happy  and  contented.  What  arguments  had .  been  used 
to  work  the  change,  I  never  asked,  and  Barbara  never 
told  me.  However  it  may  have  been,  the  result  was 
satisfactory. 

Fred  was  a  trifle  more  communicative,  but  indirectly. 
Taking  me  into  a  corner  later  in  the  evening,  he  gravely 


NED.  107 

inquired  if  I  thought  my  father  would  object  to  his  taking 
Ned  out  into  the  yard  and  wringing  his  neck. 

"  If  he  did  not,  Barbara  would,"  1  replied.  "  What 
has  poor  Ned  been  doing  now  ? " 

"  Poor  Ned,  indeed !  He  has  been  abusing  me  as 
usual.  1  was  at  my  innocent  devotions  this  afternoon, 
worshipping  at  my  shrine  in  the.  attitude  common  to 
worshippers  of  every  faith  and  clime,  when  he  attacked 
me.  Elizabeth,  being  behind  the  scenes,  why  did  you 
not  intercept  the  afternoon  tea-tray  brought  in  by  Ned 
with  catlike  step,  and  handed  to  Barbara  over  my  devoted 
head  and  prostrate  form?  1  had  two  horrible  alterna 
tives  :  to  rise  suddenly  to  my  feet,  thereby  upsetting  the 
tray  and  all  its  contents,  or  to  crab  out  sidewise.  I  chose 
the  latter,  and  even  as  I  emerged,  was  offered  tea  by  my 
tormentor  with  respectful  gravity." 

"  What  did  Barbara  do  ?  "  I  asked,  laughing  heartily. 

"  Why,   Barbara    came    to  my  rescue    nobly.      She 
reproved  Ned  scathingly,  and  with  the  air  of  an  insulted 
princess,  for  putting  only  one  lump  of  sugar  in  her  tea  — 
1  think  that  was  it." 

"  Reproved  Ned,  and  before  you!"  I  cried.  "Then, 
indeed,  she  punished  him.  The  jealous  hatred  he  bears 
you  is  beyond  words.  My  impression  is  that  he  is  not 
going  to  put  up  with  your  presence  much  longer.  I  have 
been  for  some  time  expecting  a  message  for  Ned  from 
Lord  Concarson,  necessitating  a  voyage  to  the  Island  of 
the  Dardanelles." 

"Not  he!"  cried  Fred.  "No  such  luck  for  poor 
me!" 

1  was  nearer  right  than  I  thought.  The  next  morning 
brought  with  it  the  news  that  Ned  was  off  again,  and  with 


108  NED. 

no  farewell  message  except  a  box  of  dainty  candies  tied  to 
Barbara's  door-knob. 

We  thought  a  couple  of  days  at  most  would  see  Ned 
in  his  place  again.  But  no  —  Barbara  had  gone  over  to 
the  enemy ;  his  own  eyes  had  seen  incontestable  proof 
of  a  complete  reconciliation.  It  was  not  to  be  borne, 
and  shaking  the  dust  from  his  feet,  Ned  departed  in 
earnest. 

Perhaps  it  was  for  the  best.  Barbara  missed  him  sadly 
and  grieved  long  over  his  absence,  repenting  often  her 
hasty  words.  But,  as  the  days  went  by,  she  grew  more 
and  more  absorbed  in  her  lover,  and  I  do  not  think  Ned's 
jealous  heart  could  have  borne  the  sight.  And  when  Bar 
bara's  wedding  day  came,  and  our  clinging  little  Princess 
was  taken  from  us,  1  thought  of  Ned  and  rejoiced  in 
his  absence,  believing  that  his  undisciplined  nature  would 
have  suffered  a  pang  ten  times  sharper  than  mine. 

But  Barbara  had  not  seen  her  faithful  servant  for  the 
last  time ;  she  was  soon  to  meet  him  again.  And  of  this 
meeting  I  have  heard  the  story  so  often,  that  it  has  grown 
impossible  for  me  to  feel  that  I  was  not  there  in  person,  so 
1  shall  tell  it  as  if  such  were  the  fact. 

Fred  and  Barbara  seemed  inclined  to  spend  the  rest  of 
their  lives  in  one  prolonged  wedding  journey.  Every  day 
they  determined  to  set  their  faces  toward  home  to-morrow, 
and  each  to-morrow  found  them  lingering.  Drifting 
about  in  this  way,  they  strolled  one  noon  into  the  din 
ing-room  of  a  New  York  hotel,  and  sat  awaiting  their 
luncheon.  The  waiters  were  all  negroes ;  and  as  Barbara 
idly  looked  at  them,  thinking  how  natural  their  dusky 
faces  appeared  to  her  Southern  eyes,  her  attention  was 
caught  by  something  familiar  in  the  figure  of  the  head- 


NED.  109 

waiter,  whose  back  was  toward  her.  Suddenly  he  turned, 
and  Ned  and  his  "  Miss  Princess  "  were  face  to  face. 

In  the  joy  of  that  meeting,  even  the  man  who  had 
stolen  his  treasure  was  forgiven.  He  had  no  words  too 
eloquent  to  express  his  passionate  delight,  no  entreaties  too 
urgent  to  implore  their  stay.  The  best  that  the  hotel  could 
offer  was  theirs,  and  no  hands  but  Ned's  were  allowed  to 
proffer  the  dishes.  Barbara's  happiness  was  but  little  less 
than  his;  and  when  they  left  the  dining-room  after  the 
prolonged  meal,  it  was  with  the  promise  to  make  their 
stay  an  extended  one.  With  this  understanding,  Ned  bade 
them  a  reluctant  farewell  for  the  afternoon. 

But  in  an  hour  or  so  a  message  was  brought  to  him 
that  Mrs.  Darner  wished  to  see  him  in  her  sitting-room. 
He  found  her  alone,  lying  in  a  corner  of  her  couch, 
looking  pale  and  suffering. 

"  Ah,  Ned,"  she  cried,  as  he  entered ;  "  my  head  does 
ache  so!  I  have  been  to  see  Aunt  Mary,  and  she  keeps 
her  house  as  hot  here  as  she  did  when  she  lived  at  home. 
It  made  me  so  ill,  —  just  as  it  used  to !  " 

Ned  was  all  tender  sympathy.  She  was  his  little  mis 
tress  once  more,  and  he  was  her  great,  gentle  nurse.  He 
brought  her  a  cup  of  strong  tea  made  by  his  own  hands. 
Had  she  asked  for  nightingale's  tongues,  he  would  have 
produced  them  somehow.  Barbara  sipped  the  fragrant 
tea,  and  listened  to  the  familiar  voice,  contentedly. 

"  Ned,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  suddenly,  "  why 
did  you  run  away  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Ned's  composure  failed  him,  and  his 
eyes  dropped ;  then  a  smile  crept  over  his  face. 

"  Yer  see,  honey,"  he  said,  "  I  was  jest  'bleeged  to  go. 
My  Lord  Concarson,  he  don'  sen'  fur  dis  nigger  deep  in 


110  NED. 

de  night  an'  all  de  way  from  de  Islant  of  Dardanelles 
lessen  he  means  business.  1  did  n't  even  have  de  time  fur 
to  say  good -by  to  my  pretty  baby." 

Barbara  listened  with  soft  laughter.  "  Ned,"  she  said, 
"tell  me  about  the  Island  of  Dardanelles." 

Ned  obediently  began  a  long  fallacious  tale  of  a  lovely, 
lonely  land,  —  a  land  of  tropic  growth  and  splendour.  The 
story  was  such  as  he  had  told  Barbara  over  and  over  again 
in  her  baby  days.  Gradually  her  eyelids  sleepily  drooped 
and  fell,  opened,  drooped  again,  and  then  under  the  spell 
of  the  familiar  phrases  she  fell  asleep. 

The  dining-room  of  the  hotel  where  Ned  was  in  charge 
was  somewhat  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  building,  and  this 
probably  was  the  last  place  where  the  alarm  of  fire  was 
heard  when  it  broke  out  in  the  hotel,  not  an  hour  after 
Ned  had  left  Barbara's  side.  His  first  thought  was  for  her 
safety ;  and  he  rushed  from  the  dining-room,  through  the 
hall,  and  up  the  main  stairway  which  led  to  her  rooms. 

The  hallways  were  full  of  screaming  women  and  chil 
dren,  and  were  thick  with  smoke ;  great  clouds  were  roll 
ing  in  from  every  side.  On  the  first  landing  Ned  met 
Barbara's  husband,  a  baby  in  either  arm,  and  a  half  fainting 
woman  clinging  to  his  shoulder. 

"  Miss  Princess  !  "  gasped  Ned. 

"  Safe,"  was  the  laconic  answer,  as  Fred  bundled  the 
babies  into  Ned's  arms  and  caught  the  tottering  woman. 

The  fire  had  been  smouldering  too  long  before  being 
discovered  to  think  of  saving  much  more  than  human  life 
now  that  the  flames  had  broken  out,  and  it  required  brave 
and  determined  efforts  to  accomplish  even  this.  At  last 
the  order  was  issued  by  the  captain  of  the  fire-brigade  that 


NED.  Ill 

no  one  should  further  risk  life  and  limb  by  re-entering  the 
doomed  building.  Ned  had  been  foremost  among  the 
workers,  and  he  now  prepared  to  enjoy  himself. 

An  African  is  always  a  voluptuary  in  his  pleasures ;  and, 
abandoning  himself  with  true  negro  delight  to  the  sway  of 
excitement,  Ned  drifted  about  with  the  seething  and  twist 
ing  of  the  crowd,  until  he  found  himself  standing  close 
by  Fred's  side.  He  then  resisted  the  pressure  which  was 
bearing  him  forward,  and  spoke  reproachfully,  — 

"  I  jes'  hope  you  got  Miss  Princess  a-lookin'  at  dis  yer 
fire  from  somewhar.  She  allays  did  love  a  fire.  Many 's 
de  one  I  done  tuk  her  toe  outen  de  back  gate  when  ole 
Miss  think  she  war  in  de  nuss'ry  an'  I  war  in  de  woodhus. 
Thar  war  n't  none  on  it  she  did  n't  see,  a-settin'  up  on  my 
shoulder  an'  crowin'  like  a  little  rooster.  Ole  Miss,  she 
cot  me  takin'  her  onct.  Lord,  but  she  did  raise !  I  dis- 
remember  jes'  what  she  tol*  me,  but  I  know  I  ain'  tuk  de 
chile  no  mo'.  Ho,  ho !  " 

Fred  listened  with  much  amusement. 

"  I  am  afraid  your  Miss  Barbara  cannot  see  this  fire 
from  where  she  is,"  he  said ;  "  I  took  her  across  the  city 
early  this  afternoon  to  visit  her  aunt.  It  is  not  my  fault 
that  she  is  not  with  me ;  they  did  n't  want  me,  and  told 
me  so." 

"  An'  yer  ain'  seen  Miss  Princess  sence  de  fire  bruk 
out  ? " 

"  No  —  for  God's  sake,  man,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  " 

The  two  faces  looked  into  each  other,  a  strange  con 
trast,  —  one  with  staring  white  eyeballs  and  eyes  full  of  a 
horrible  intelligence,  the  other  white  and  ghastly  with  its 
dawning  terror. 


112  NED. 

No  further  words  were  needed.  Both  men  turned  and 
sprang  forward  as  moved  by  one  muscle ;  but  the  action 
of  the  negro  was  with  hand  and  foot.  A  well-directed 
blow  from  his  ponderous  fist  made  the  husband  of  his 
young  mistress  stagger ;  and  when  he  recovered  his  foot 
ing  Ned  had  gained  the  moment's  advantage,  and  was 
cleaving  his  way  through  the  crowd,  which  opened  for  him 
as  did  the  Red  Sea  for  Moses,  —  "  a  wall  on  the  right  hand 
and  on  the  left." 

As  he  reached  the  door  of  the  burning  building,  his 
path  was  barred  by  a  fireman  in  his  full  panoply  and  power 
of  office. 

"  Git  out,  ye  black  fool,"  he  shouted,  in  unmistakable 
Irish. 

Out  swept  that  powerful  black  arm,  and  with  what 
seemed  but  a  gesture,  the  burly  Irishman  was  brushed  aside. 
The  next  moment  Ned  was  up  the  deserted  stairway,  and 
had  gained  the  first  landing.  Here  he  paused.  There  was 
no  one  now  to  bar  his  progress  but  Death  clad  in  his 
most  fearful  terrors. 

The  negro  stooped  and  began  to  draw  off  his  boots. 
The  stairway  hung  by  a  thread,  and  his  step  must  be  cat 
like.  He  cast  one  look  back  into  the  surging  mass  of  life 
below,  and  saw  there  a  man  struggling  vainly  in  the  grasp 
of  a  dozen  hands.  He  heard  a  hoarse  voice  crying,  — 

"  Curse  you,  let  me  go  ;  my  wife  is  in  that  hell !  " 

Above  the  roar  of  the  fire,  above  the  shout  of  many 
voices,  rose  the  stentorian  tones  of  the  captain  of  the 
brigade,  — 

"  Hold  on  to  him,  boys !  Hold  on  to  him  !  There  's 
one  chance  in  a  hundred,  and  that  hangs  on  those  steps. 
There  sha'n't  be  a  foot  set  on  'em." 


NED.  113 

Ned  heard,  saw,  and  was  satisfied  that  the  first  part  of 
his  mission  was  accomplished.  He  set  his  bared  foot  on 
the  charred  steps,  and  began  the  ascent,  the  first  turn  hiding 
him  from  the  eyes  of  the  crowd  below. 

A  death-like  silence  fell  on  the  multitude,  —  a  silence 
rendering  more  horribly  audible  the  resistless,  sullen  roar 
of  the  fire,  which  licked  and  curled  about  the  eaves  of  the 
house,  and  which  the  hissing  water  seemed  but  to  feed. 
Great  tongues  of  flame  broke  from  one  window  and  an 
other,  as  if  the  devouring  fiends  within  were  looking  out 
deridingly  at  the  white,  upturned  faces.  A  woman's  hys 
terical  sobs  alone  broke  the  stillness,  and  she  was  sternly 
hushed. 

Barbara's  husband  ceased  to  struggle  in  the  firemen's 
grasp. 

Have  you  ever  known  what  waiting  means,  —  known 
more  than  its  impatient  restlessness  ?  Have  you  ever  felt 
that  stopping  of  the  heart's  pulses  for  one  moment  of 
anxious  listening,  and  then  at  some  sound  the  wild  rush 
and  thunder  of  the  blood  in  your  veins,  the  agony  of  the 
clutch  at  your  very  life  and  being,  your  breath  stopped  in 
your  throat  ?  If  you  have  never  known  all  this,  you  have 
never  known  waiting,  and  you  may  pray  Heaven  to  spare 
you  that  knowledge.  This  suffering  and  this  knowledge 
are  Frederic  Darner's. 

Crash ! 

A  cry  rose  from  the  listening  crowd  in  answer  to  the 
sound,  and  the  woman  who  had  sobbed  before  was  carried 
away  fainting. 

"  Thank  God,  it 's  only  the  lower  stairway  gone !  "  said 
the  captain ;  "the  landing  still  holds.  I  can  reach  it  with 
a  ladder ;  get  me  one." 

8 


1 14  NED. 

"  I  go  with  you,"  said  a  quiet,  determined  voice  beside 
him ;  it  was  Barbara's  husband. 

The  captain  turned  and  looked  at  him  closely ;  appar- 
rently  what  he  saw  satisfied  him. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  answered  calmly.  "  Give  him  your 
helmet,  Jack.  We  must  go  now,  sir ;  I  hear  them  on  the 
stair." 

They  entered  the  burning  house  together;  at  any 
moment  the  roof  might  fall.  Four  lives  were  now  in 
jeopardy  where  two  had  stood  before.  The  sound  of  a 
footfall  slowly  became  an  established  fact. 

"  That  ain't  but  one  person  walking,  sir,"  said  the  cap 
tain,  gently,  "  and  you  'd  best  not  hope,  for  that  foot 's 
bare." 

"  Then  he  is  carrying  her,"  said  Fred  ;  and  again  noth 
ing  but  the  dread  fire  sounds  and  that  stealthy  footfall 
broke  the  silence. 

At  last !  at  last !  Out  of  the  smoke,  out  of  the  flame, 
on  to  the  frail  platform  stepped  the  gigantic  negro,  his 
clothing  literally  torn  and  burned  from  his  body,  the  blood 
streaming  from  a  ghastly  wound  in  his  head,  his  breath 
coming  in  sobs  like  those  of  a  wounded  stag ;  but  in  his 
arms,  gathered  close  to  his  breast,  her  fair  curls  gleaming 
on  its  blackness,  lay  the  unconscious  form  of  his  Miss 
Princess. 

Once  more  he  was  carrying  her  safely  home  from  a  fire, 
and  now,  indeed,  for  the  last  time !  By  the  help  of  the 
two  waiting  men  the  descent  of  the  ladder  was  made,  and 
Barbara  lay  in  her  husband's  arms.  Even  at  this  supreme 
moment,  he  observed  with  a  rush  of  grateful  emotion  that 
the  blanket  in  which  she  was  swathed  had  been  saturated 
in  water. 


NED.  »  115 

As  the  rescuer  and  the  rescued  passed  out  from  the 
blazing  house,  a  wild  shout  burst  from  the  excited  crowd, 
which  pressed  forward  beyond  control.  But  even  as  his 
dimmed  sense  heard  the  cries,  as  the  blessed  air  of  heaven 
smote  upon  him,  Ned  staggered  and  dropped  to  the  ground. 
The  blood  gushed  out  from  his  ears  and  mouth  ;  he  was 
picked  up  by  strong  hands  and  carried  into  a  neighbouring 
house,  where  at  least  there  were  quiet  and  care. 

In  another  room  in  the  same  building  Barbara  lay,  still 
unconscious;  but  the  swoon  caused  by  fright  and  shock 
soon  yielded  to  treatment,  and  she  awoke,  crying  hyster 
ically  for  "Mother!''  and  clinging  nervously  to  her 
husband. 

But  her  first  fully  conscious  thought  was  for  Ned.  Fred 
could  not  command  his  voice  to  answer  her  eager,  per 
sistent  questions,  and  it  was  the  physician  in  charge  who 
gently  broke  to  her  the  news  of  his  danger,  and  who  left 
her  to  seek  the  latest  report  of  his  condition. 

In  these,  few  moments,  alone  with  the  wife  "  brought 
to  him  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave,"  I  think  we  may  for 
give  a  brief  forgetfulness  of  the  Hercules  whose  gift  she 
was ;  but  it  was  v/ith  a  sense  of  remorseful  awakening  that 
Fred  looked  at  the  grave  face  of  the  physician  as  he  en 
tered,  saying,  "  I  can  give  you  but  little  encouragement." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  cried  Barbara;  "you  can,  you  must 
save  him !  Go  to  him,  both  of  you.  I  promise  to  be 
perfectly  quiet ;  I  won't  move,  —  only  go,  oh,  go !  " 

As  the  door  closed  behind  the  two  men,  Fred  turned 
to  the  physician  with  an  inquiring  look,  and  was  answered 
by  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  an  outward  motion  of 
the  hands  more  expressive  than  any  words.  Every 
thing  that  skill  could  do  had  been  done,  but  from  the 


116  *  NED. 

first  it  needed  no  medical  verdict  to  tell  that  there  was 
no  hope. 

Ned  did  not  seem  to  suffer,  but  lay  almost  unconscious, 
breathing  heavily.  Fred,  bending  over  him  in  an  agony 
of  grateful  pity,  saw  his  lips  move,  and  bending  nearer, 
thought  he  heard  him  whisper,  "  Miss  Princess." 

"  Shall  1  bring  her  to  you  ? "  he  asked,  and  waiting 
for  no  answer,  went  hastily  for  his  wife. 

She  started  up  with  eager  eyes  as  he  entered.  "  Is 
there  no  hope  ?  "  she  cried. 

"There  has  been  none  from  the  first,"  he  answered. 
"  Dear,  he  is  asking  for  you.  Can  you  bear  it  ?  There 
is  not  a  moment  to  lose."  v 

"  Oh,  take  me  to  him  quickly,  quickly." 

He  lifted  her  tenderly,  and  half  led,  half  carried  her 
to  the  room  of  the  dying  man.  But  in  his  short  absence 
there  had  been  a  change  in  the  sufferer ;  agony  had  par 
tially  restored  consciousness,  and  each  breath  was  a  moan. 

"  Come,  Lord,  come !  Oh,  Lord,  come  git  me  !  "  he 
was  crying  feebly  as  they  entered  the  room. 

"  Love,  it  is  too  late.  You  may  not  stay  now  ;  he 
would  not  wish  it." 

But  Barbara  broke  from  her  husband's  detaining  arm, 
and  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by  Ned's  bedside. 

Her  presence  seemed  to  rouse  him.    He  opened  his 

eyes  and  looked  at  her  tearful  face.    "  T  ain't  so  terrible 

bad,  darlin',"  he  gasped  brokenly.     "  I  ain't  a-cryin'  none, 

-  jis'  whisperin'  to  de  Lord,  honey,  jis'  whisperin'  to  de 

Lord." 

Barbara  buried  her  face  in  the  bedside  and  burst  into 
a  passion  of  tears.  He  husband  stepped  forward  to  draw 
her  away,  fearing  that  she  might  disturb  the  dying  man ; 


NED.  117 

but  Ned  seemed  to  divine  his  intention,  and  rallying  his 
strength,  laid  a  detaining  hand  on  her  sunny  curls,  raising 
her  face  to  his  sight. 

"  Don'  take  on  so,  darlin',"  he  whispered  ;  "  I 's  got  to 
go,  but  I  ain'  goin'  fur,  honey,  not  to  say  fur."  A  gleam 
of  the  old  humour  shot  across  his  face.  "  Ned  only  gwine 
to  the  Islant  of  Dardenelles,  honey,  fur  to  wait  on  my 
Lord  Con  —  " 

A  sudden  shudder  shook  his  whole  frame ;  his  face 
was  contorted  in  agony.  Barbara's  husband  laid  his  hand 
quickly  across  her  eyes  to  shut  out  the  sight. 

And  when  he  drew  ,it  away  again  all  was  over ;  Ned 
had  at  last  made  his  voyage  to  the  Blessed  Isles,  and 
was  waiting  upon  his  Lord  —  whose  name  was  not 
Concarson. 


"THROUGH   A  GLASS,  DARKLY.' 


THROUGH  A  GLASS,  DARKLY.' 


^TO-MORROW  I  enter  into  my  new  life ;  to-morrow  I 
leave  my  past  behind  me  forever.  To-day  I  am  — 
well,  what  I  am;  to-morrow  I  shall  be  known  as  "the 
wife  of  Senator  Blythe,"  and  after  that  as  a  Power. 
Power !  there  is  indefinable  force  in  the  very  sound  of  the 
word.  Power:  I  like  to  say  it  over. 

Come  here,  my  little  mirror.  Sit  on  the  table  by  me, 
and  let  us  have  an  honest  talk,  you  and  I ;  it  is  long  since 
1  have  talked  honestly  to  any  one.  .  You  are  the  only 
article  of  real  value  on  my  dressing-table.  My  brush  has 
a  wooden  back ;  my  comb  is  of  india-rubber.  Ah,  well, 
all  that  will  be  changed  to-morrow ;  but  now  you  alone 
are  suited  to  me.  Ivory,  tipped  with  gold  —  a  gift  of 
Emily's;  the  frame  painted  by  herself, —  passion-flowers: 
they  look  like  her.  This  dainty,  delicately  tinted  corner 
might  be  Emily  herself.  But  let  us  talk, —  we  two.  It  is 
the  last  time  I  shall  ever  see  you,  my  dear.  Suppose 
we  look  each  other  squarely  in  the  face  before  we  say 
good -by. 

And  so  this  is  what  I  have  fought  the  battle  with  — 
and  won.  I  am  not  beautiful, —  not  as  Emily  was.  I 
know  that  my  hair  and  eyes  are  superb,  but  the  rest  of 


122  "THROUGH  A  GLASS,   DARKLY." 

my  face  is  open  to  criticism.  How  has  it  been  that  at 
twenty-four,  with  this,  my  only  stock-in-trade,  to  back 
me,  I  have  played  for  a  high  stake  —  and  won  ? 

We  know,  do  we  not,  my  mirror  ?  As  we  speak  of  it 
now  "  the  old  Circe  looks  from  out  my  eyes." 

Yes,  that  was  it :  I  knew  my  power ; .  but  it  had  to 
be  used  with  caution.  It  is  easy  for  such  a  woman,  alone 
in  the  world,  to  be  called  an  adventuress.  1  was  clever 
enough  to  escape  that;  no  one  ever  called  me  that  but 
once  —  and  the  poor  little  woman  was  hounded  to  it.  1 
shall  never  forget  that  day  by  the  sea.  How  her  baby- 
face  quivered  when  she  found  us  alone  on  the  rocks,  and 
how  her  eyes  flashed  through  her  tears ! 

"  Adventuress! " 

1  can  hear  her  now.  She  had  her  bitterness  to  bear, 
and  she  gave  me  mine.  I  liked  her  spirit,  but  it  stung  all 
the  same.  I  remember  how  1  sat,  white  and  silent,  catch 
ing  my  breath  from  the  force  of  the  blow.  What  a 
brute  her  husband  showed  himself !  He  spoke  to  her  as 
my  husband  will  never  speak  to  me ;  or  if  he  does,  the 
woman  in  question  will  not  get  off  so  easily  as  I  did.  She 
came  to  heel  at  once,  poor  little  thing,  and  apologized  to 
the  "  unfriended,  lonely  woman  she  had  insulted."  I  was 
always  a  fool  about  those  pretty  baby-women.  I  should 
not  have  made  a  bad  man,  I  think ;  as  a  woman,  I  am  a 
mistake.  When  1  took  the  hand  she  gave  me  at  her  hus 
band's  command,  1  hated  him.  How  I  should  have  liked 
to  advise  her  a  little !  but  I  paid  off  her  score  for  her,— 
paid  it  in  full.  Ah,  my  young  friend,  you  were  a  little 
astonished  the  next  day  when  1  dropped  my  pathetic  role, 
and  told  you  with  point-blank  coolness  that  you  loved  me. 
I  laughed  in  his  face,  told  him  to  look  into  his  heart,  and 


"  THROUGH  A  GLASS,   DARKLY."  12} 

see  what  I  saw  there.  I  had  only  played  with  him  for 
an  hour,  because  I  foolishly  fancied  that  his  eyes  were 
like  others  I  had  known, — like  those  clear,  honest,  trusting- 
eyes  which  should  have  been  difficult  for  dishonest  ones  to 
meet, —  but  not  for  mine.  He  went  back  to  his  child-wife 
cured,  but  a  man,  not  the  boy  he  had  been  ;  he  will  never 
be  that  again.  If  any  mother  wanted  her  son  matured,  I 
think  I  could  guarantee  to  do  it  in  two  weeks — certainly 
three. 

I  must  be  careful  not  to  smile  like  that;  it  does  not 
suit  my  style,  does  it,  my  faithful  friend  ?  Or  perhaps 
suits  it  too  well  ?  I  was  very  near  trying  to  deceive  you ; 
you  just  caught  me  in  time.  You  see,  it  comes  naturally 
to  me;  it  was  the  bread-and-milk  of  my  baby-days: 
"Mamma,  mamma,  pretty  mamma, —  I  want  to  be  with 
my  mamma." 

Charming  maternal  picture !  -  -  with  the  pathetic 
widow's  weeds  as  background.  I  played  my  part  with 
great  spirit  for  such  a  tiny  thing;  it  was  not  my  fault 
that  the  child -lover  retired  without  results.  As  the  next 
on  the  carpet  hated  children,  1  was  banished  to  the  nursery, 
and  later  to  boarding-school,  where  I  studied  because  I 
chose  to,  and  not  because  of  good  teaching.  I  gained 
other  things  there  too, —  my  power  of  apparent  self-efface 
ment,  of  stern  self-control,  of  close  watchfulness;  and 
there,  later,  came  Emily, —  beautiful,  dignified,  wealthy. 
1  made  up  my  mind  that  she  should  love  me  ;  and  I  easily 
accomplished  this,  she  was  so  loving  and  unsuspecting.  1 
went  to  her  English  home  with  her  from  school, —  as  I 
meant  to.  Ah,  those  two  months,  those  halcyon  days!  - 
in  them  1  learned  the  fascination  I  possessed ;  in  them  I 
learned  to  use  it.  Emily  might  be  beautiful, —  was  beau- 


124  "THROUGH  A  GLASS,   DARKLY." 

tiful,  —  pure,  and  exquisite  as  the  lining  of  a  shell,  but, 
beside  me,  she  who  had  everything  was  as  nothing. 

Not  in  bis  eyes  alone,  but  in  the  eyes  of  others.  I  saw 
it  plainly ;  had  I  not,  everything  might  have  been  differ 
ent.  I  discovered  that  most  women  must  exert  them 
selves;  1  had  but  to  be  —  and  I  was  only  eighteen. 

And  yet  Emily  was  beautiful,  beautiful.  He  had  loved 
her  before  1  came  —  but  then! 

Ah,  that  winding,  moonlit  river,  those  shaded  walks, 
those  tender  words  and  tenderer  caresses!  His  mere 
presence  an  exquisite  consciousness,  his  absence  an  aching 
hunger ! 

Richard!  Richard!  Ah,  God,  if  I  had  died  in  your 
arms  that  day  six  years  ago  !  What !  tears  ?  One  —  two 
—  three  —  four  of  them.  Crocodile!  Always  deceitful, 
and  striving  now  to  deceive  yourself,  as  you  did  him. 
Deceiving  him,  with  his  passionate  kisses  stilj  warm  on 
your  lips! 

"  Marry  you,  dear  ?  Never,  never !  Could  I,  of  all 
women,  break  Emily's  heart  ?  " 

Bah !  what  did  1  care  for  Emily  ?  Not  a  snap  of  my 
fingers. 

Marry  him  ?  No,  no !  Not  the  young  country  squire, 
with  his  estate  smothered  in  mortgages,  in  spite  of  his 
brave  pink  coat  and  blooded  horses.  1  found  all  that  out, 
and  despised  myself  for  doing  so.  But  I  collected  my 
facts  first,  and  did  the  despising  afterwards;  one  gener 
ally  does.  I  took  the  first-fruits  of  my  heart,  and  offered 
them  to  my  Moloch  of  ambition;  to-morrow  I  get  my 
reward. 

1  had  a  small  sum  of  money  of  my  own,  and  had  been 
adding  to  it  by  writing;  my  pen  was  a  ready,  caustic 


"THROUGH  A  GLASS,   DARKLY."  125 

one,  and  I  could  rely  on  it.  Live  with  my  step -father, 
accept  his  grudging  charity,  1  found  I  could  not.  I 
worked  hard,  made  for  myself  a  position,  and  was  known 
to  the  Press  as  one  wielding  a  brilliant  pen,  not  too 
scrupulous,  and  thoroughly  useful.  I  saw  nothing  of  any 
women ;  I  lived  alone.  I  knew  I  should  never  gain  any 
thing  from  them  but  a  sufferance,  and  that  was  not  worth 
working  for ;  but  with  men  it  was  different.  There  I  had 
the  fearlessness  of  certain  success. 

1  like  to  think  of  the  good  offers  of  marriage  1  have 
refused;  I  consider  it  a  remarkable  circumstance  that  in 
my  position  1  could  have  chosen  a  humdrum,  respectable 
existence  at  any  time.  Yes,  I  think  of  it  with  compla 
cency,  and  of  my  strength  to  say  no.  Do  you  recognize 
what  faith  in  myself  I  must  have  had  to  do  this? 

What  a  wonderful  lobbyist  1  was  for  an  amateur !  I 
had  other  ends  in  view,  or  I  should  have  adopted  it  as  a 
profession.  I  only  dabbled  in  it  for  excitement ;  it  was 
my  absinthe.  1  made  that  clearly  understood.  When  a 
case  had  been  tried  and  pronounced  impossible,  how  1 
enjoyed  working  it !  When  that  great  political  move  had 
to  be  made,  and  when  Senator  Blythe,  the  unapproach 
able,  had  to  be  brought  to  support  it,  who  could  be  found 
to  bell  the  cat  but  me  ?  I  who  had  nothing  to  lose, 
nothing  to  gain  but  another  experience. 

But  he  was  difficult,  more  difficult  than  I  could  have 
imagined;  there  was  nothing  to  catch  hold  of  in  his 
smooth  yet  grim  exterior.  I  was  courteously  defeated  at 
every  point  by  this  elderly  man.  He  had  me  at  a  disad 
vantage  from  the  first.  My  charm  of  face  and  manner 
were  but  so  much  material  to  be  enjoyed,  without  moving 
him  an  iota. 


126  "THROUGH  A  GLASS,   DARKLY." 

I  had  met  my  match ;  it  was  like  flinging  flowers  at  a 
sun-dial.  His  course  was  marked  out,  and  he  would  pur 
sue  it  steadily.  How  1  admired  him  when  1  arose  to  go, 
outwitted  and  defeated ! 

It  was  you  who  prompted  me  to  turn  and  speak  on 
the  very  threshold  of  the  room,  —  you,  my  mocking 
familiar. 

"  Senator  Blythe,  although  I  have  entirely  failed  in  what 
I  came  to  accomplish,  I  do  not  feel  that  my  visit  has  been 
for  naught.  1  have  known  Senator  Blythe  the  orator,  the 
statesman,  the  author;  now  1  know  Senator  Blythe  the 
man,  —  the  man  whose  personality  has  left  me  nothing  to 
say  but  farewell." 

Gross,  crude,  palpable,  was  it  not  ?  I  waited  for  a  sar 
casm  which  should  crush  me  to  the  earth  from  lips  so  well 
accustomed  to  that  mode  of  warfare. 

"H'm,  h'm!" 

Senator  Blythe  was  pulling  his  collar  up  a  little  higher 
toward  his  clean-shaven  chin,  and  waiting  with  open 
mouth  for  more  ;  he  got  it,  —  of  course  he  got  it  at  once. 
I  had  left  the  beaten  path  to  seek  this  powerful  mind,  this 
great  leader,  and  behold,  the  old  accustomed  road  was  the 
only  way !  Old  or  young,  grave  or  gay,  foolish  or  wise, 
it  is  all  the  same,  my  mirror,  and  you  knew  it. 

I  did  not  press  my  advantage,  —  "would  not  trespass 
on  his  time ;  would  he  think  over  the  matter  under  discus 
sion,  and  confer  with  me  at  my  address  ?  " 

The  great  political  battle  was  won,  and,  with  it,  my 
own.  Victory  seemed  to  come  to  me  by  mere  chance ; 
was  it  chance  only  ? 

We  know  better  than  that,  do  we  not  ?  All  great 
victories  must  seem  so.  None  but  the  victor  knows  of 


"  THROUGH   A   GLASS,    DARKLY."  127 

the  weary  hours  spent  in  preparing  for  the  pregnant 
moment.  It  may  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night ;  but  it  will 
come  to  him  who  waits  and  watches.  The  eye  must  be 
hawk -like  behind  its  softness,  the  mental  muscles  whip 
cord,  the  hand  trained  to  close  thus:  finger  by  finger, 
slowly,  stealthily,  surely. 

What  a  pretty,  slim  hand  it  is !  "A  curled-up  rose- 
leaf,"  he  used  to  call  it.  "Give  me  your  hand,  love, — 
those  soft,  rosy  tips.  Let  me  kiss  them,  finger  by  finger; 
and  now  one  for  the  palm."  Let  me  listen  a  moment, 
only  a  moment. 

Clinging  kisses  they  must  have  been  to  be  there  still. 
Ah,  Richard !  "All  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  not 
sweeten  this  little  hand."  Yet  to-morrow  it  will  wash  and 
be  clean.  Essence  of  Power  is  stronger  than  the  perfumes 
of  Arabia ;  that  shall  cleanse  this  little  hand. 

To-morrow  I  am  to  be  myself  no  more.  You,  my 
friend,  looking  at  me  so  closely  now,  will  be  as  one  dead  ; 
1  shall  be  as  a  phoenix  rising  from  my  ashes.  Every  link 
with  the  past  I  have  destroyed.  Yes,  I  am  deceiving  you 
again  —  or  trying  to.  I  have  not  destroyed  —  everything ; 
I  have  kept  back  one  little  relic,  so  small  that  1  thought 
you  would  pass  it  over,  but  you  are  right  to  be  inexor 
able.  Here  it  is,  —  a  tiny  gold  heart,  so  small  that  it  has 
hung  about  my  neck  and  in  my  bosom  for  six  years  with 
out  discovery.  Never  mind  the  contents.  I  will  lay  all  in 
the  hottest  part  of  the  fire. 

Very  well  done  indeed.  One  sudden  kiss,  your  hand 
pressed  to  your  side,  your  tears  dashed  away.  Your  eyes 
look  very  pretty  and  misty ;  that  pathetic  droop  to  the 
lips  is  becoming.  Such  a  pity  no  one  is  here  to  see  !  All 
very  correctly  done.  Tears  over  the  first  desperate  lover, 


128  "THROUGH  A  GLASS,   DARKLY." 

the  first  kisses;  and  the  relics  burned  on  the  night  be 
fore  one's  wedding ! 

And  now,  having  spoken  truths  to  you,  I  am  going  to 
break  you  into  a  thousand  pieces  and  throw  you  away.  I 
do  not  want  to  see  you  again  after  this.  But  first  let  me 
look  into  your  eyes — soul  to  soul.  Tell  me,  have  you 
any  regrets ;  have  you  any  fear  that  you  have  not  done 
wisely  ?  Stop  and  think. 

No,  I  have  done  well ;  and  1  am  only  twenty -four.  I 
see  before  me  a  series  of  satisfying  circumstances.  I  like 
those  words;  they  are  alliterative,  too.  "A  series  of 
satisfying  circumstances."  Satisfied  ambition ;  satisfied 
pride ;  satisfied  love  of  power !  1  know  just  what  my 
statesman  can  give  me  —  now  and  later.  We  can  work  it 
out  together,  he  and  I ;  we  have  already  begun.  And 
though  he  be  fascinated,  he  is  no  hot-blooded  young  fool ; 
he  knows  just  what  my  help  means. 

Why  are  you  looking  at  me  with  that  expression  ?  Am 
1  still  keeping  something  back  ? 

Yes? 

Well,  take  it,  then.  I  have  sacrificed  my  soul  to  my 
Moloch,  tortured  my  brain,  bartered  my  youth ;  and  to 
morrow  1  sell  my  body.  To  do  this  well,  I  had  first  to 
ossify  my  heart ;  and  I  did  it  quite  successfully. 

But  there  is  one  spot  over  which  I  can  never  form  more 
than  a  frail  crust ;  and  sometimes  it  is  a  gaping  wound  so 
tender  that  even  to  breathe  on  it  causes  exquisite  agony, 
and  that  spot  is  guarded  by  the  white,  set  face  of  a  young, 
hot-blooded  fool.  With  clouded  eyes,  and  lips  that  for 
six  years  have  been  saying  over  and  over  again  the  same 
words :  "  Farewell !  farewell  forever,  my  true  darling,  my 
brave  heart !  Farewell  —  farewell !  " 


"  THROUGH  A  GLASS,   DARKLY."  129 

And  now  with  one  crash,  you  and  all  my  past  life  are 
destroyed  together,  and  I  step  into  my  new  life,  clean  con 
fessed  and  without  absolution. 

To-morrow  I  must  borrow  a  glass  to  dress  my  hair 
for  my  wedding ;  and  the  next  day  I  may  buy  a  dozen  if 
I  choose,  and  frame  them  all  in  gold.  But  not  one  —  no, 
not  one  —  shall  have  on  it  even  the  leaf  of  a  passion 
flower. 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE. 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE. 


IT  was  the  year  of  our  Lord  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty. 
A  hot  September  sun  shone  down  on  the  South 
Branch  of  the  Potomac  as  it  ran  brawling  and  splashing 
along,  angrily  wrestling  with  every  obstacle  that  stopped 
its  way ;  but  wrestle  as  it  might,  a  bank  of  stone  was  able 
to  resist  and  turn  the  river  out  of  its  course,  making  it 
almost  describe  a  circle.  On  the  beautiful  peninsula  thus 
formed  stood  a  square  stone-house  surrounded  by  numer 
ous  out-buildings  and  magnificent  old  trees. 

The  old  homestead  showed  signs  of  prosperity  and  the 
utmost  care  in  a  near  past ;  now  the  first  pitiable  marks  of 
neglect  and  decay  were  apparent.  The  fences  were 
broken;  a  shutter  flapped  on  one  hinge  in  the  fitful 
breeze ;  the  once  clean-shaven  lawn,  which  ran  from  the 
front  of  the  house  to  the  water's  edge,  was  strewn  with 
leaves  and  wore  an  unkempt  air  of  litter.  But  if  there 
were  any  human  interest  behind  the  hot  eye  of  that  Sep 
tember  sun,  it  was  not  held  by  the  quiet  beauty  of  the 
scene,  nor  yet  its  sadness.  Strange  echoes  and  a  sense  of 
apprehension  were  in  the  air;  the  cattle  stopped  feeding 
and  raised  their  heads ;  an  old  negro  picking  up  apples 
straightened  his  back  and  looked  about  uneasily. 


134  THE  OLD  PENINSULA   HOUSE. 

Suddenly  a  man  clad  in  the  uniform  of  a  Confederate 
soldier  ran  with  the  silent  rapidity  of  a  gray  squirrel  over 
the  narrow  neck  which  bound  the  homestead  to  the  main 
land.  He  was  without  a  hat,  and  his  clothes  were  mud- 
stained;  his  breath  came  in  laboured  sighs;  only  an 
indomitable  will  worked  the  machinery  of  his  exhausted 
frame. 

Again  the  air  was  disturbed  by  pistol-shots  and  shouts ; 
the  loud  voices  grew  louder,  and  a  handful  of  Federal 
soldiers  dashed  across  the  neck.  They  were  led  by  an 
officer  whose  practised  eye  scanned  the  peninsula. 

"  Halt ! "  he  called ;  "the  fool  has  run  into  a  trap.  Do 
you  two  guard  this  neck  ;  the  rest  follow ! " 

The  flying  gray  figure  disappeared  in  a  hedge  of  ever 
greens  which  separated  the  front  lawn  from  the  garden 
and  cornfield  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

"  God  help  him !  Oh,  pray  God  help  him !  "  pleaded 
Miss  Etty  Trot,  standing  at  her  upper  window. 

Her  heart  was  beating  wildly,  her  hands  were  clasped 
until  each  nail  was  white  with  the  pressure,  as  she  watched 
the  fugitive  cross  the  garden  and  run  among  the  stubble 
where  the  corn  stood  in  shocks. 

A  moment  later  two  blue -coated  figures  broke  through 
the  evergreens;  there  was  no  one  in  sight,  and  they 
paused  doubtfully. 

Unable  to  bear  the  suspense,  Miss  Etty  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  turned  away  trembling;  sobbing 
like  a  child,  she  fell  on  her  knees  in  an  agony  of  prayer. 

A  knock  at  the  door  roused  her. 

"Miss  Etty,  honey;  Miss  Etty — "  It  was  the  unmis 
takable  negro  voice,  inarticulate  from  excitement.  The 
household  was  a  well-trained  one ;  under  no  pressure 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA   HOUSE.  135 

would  Uncle  Dan  have  omitted  knocking  at  his  mistress's 
door,  although  he  had  been  her  nurse  in  childhood,  and 
had  waited  on  her  for  more  than  thirty  years. 

"  Miss  Etty,  a  Yank  cap'en  in  de  hall,  chile.  He  say 
he  got  ter  see  yer.  He  gwine  to  such  de  house,  anyho'." 

Miss  Etty  held  her  hand  over  her  fluttering  heart. 
Then  the  fugitive  was  not  yet  found !  Ah,  to  hurry  them 
through  the  house !  —  to  get  them  away  that  she  might 
search ! 

The  stairway  of  the  old  mansion  rose  from  the  centre 
of  the  great  square  hall ;  it  ended  in  a  gallery  which  ran 
around  all  four  walls,  and  on  which  the  upper  rooms 
opened.  Standing  at  the  hall-door,  not  only  the  stair  but 
a  part  of  the  gallery  could  be  seen. 

At  this  point  of  vantage  the  Federal  officer  was  sta 
tioned.  The  blaze  of  noonday  light  would  fall  on  the 
figure  whose  descent  he  had  ordered. 

He  saw  a  tiny,  shrinking  form  appear  on  the  gallery ; 
it  descended  the  steps  slowly,  looking  at  him  as  some 
startled  wild  creature  might  at  its  captor.  Behind  her 
shuffled  Uncle  Dan,  equally  frightened,  but  with  a  dogged 
faithfulness. 

The  small  white-robed  lady  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
stair,  and  paused.  The  draught  which  swept  the  hall 
blew  back  the  light  hair  from  about  her  temples,  and 
showed  the  fine  blue  veins  there.  A  lace  kerchief  crossed 
on  her  bosom  fluttered  as  though  the  wind  had  crept  there 
also. 

"  Is  she  nineteen  or  thirty  ? "  thought  the  man  in  the 
doorway ;  "  one  can  never  tell  with  these  little  light 
women." 

The  little  light  woman  drew  nearer  to  him,  at  the  cost 


136  THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE. 

of  an  effort  which  left  no  trace  of  blood  in  her  cheeks ; 
she  opened  her  lips,  but  speech  died  in  their  child-like 
quivering. 

The  officer  stirred  uneasily  ;  he  was  moved,  and  there 
fore  his  voice  was  unnecessarily  stern  as  he  demanded  to 
be  taken  over  the  house. 

Had  he  met  with  opposition,  his  task  would  have  been 
an  easier  one.  With  growing  discomfort,  he  followed  the 
little  figure  and  timid  voice  up  and  down  stairways,  and 
through  room  after  room.  His  demands  gradually  be 
came  requests,  his  requests,  apologies. 

Dan  toiled  steadfastly  after  them,  but  his  mistress  car 
ried  her  key-basket,  and  opened  the  doors  with  her  own 
hands.  Before  one  she  paused  and  looked  up  appealingly, 
but  the  officer  averted  his  eyes  and  the  door  swung  open. 
Uncle  Dan  cast  one  scared  glance  into  the  darkened  room, 
then  turned  his  ashen  face,  puckered  with  rage,  toward 
the  searcher. 

"  Ef  ole  Marse  warnt  dade,  you  darsent,"  he  snarled. 

"  It  was  my  dear  mother's  room,"  said  Miss  Etty ;  "  it 
has  never  been  changed  since  she  left  it.  Uncle  Dan  was 
very  fond  of  her."  The  gentle  courtesy,  the  note  of  patient 
pain  in  the  soft  voice,  were  not  lost  on  her  listener.  He 
closed  the  door  reverently,  locked  it,  and  laid  the  key  in 
the  basket  on  Miss  Etty's  arm. 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  1  am  not  quite  a  brute,"  he  said. 
"  Assure  me  that  there  is  no  one  hidden  in  the  house,  and 
I  leave  you  in  peace." 

"  No,  no  one,"  breathed  she,  too  eagerly. 

A  long  pause,  and  then :  "  Nor  in  the  grounds  ?  " 

Under  the  keen  eyes  searching  her  face,  her  eye 
lids  flickered  and  fell.  The  same  pitifully  frightened 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA   HOUSE. 

expression  which  had  moved  him  before,  crept  over  her 
features. 

"  It  is  her  brother  or  lover,  poor  soul,"  thought  the 
man  watching  her. 

When  Miss  Etty  looked  up  again  she  was  alone  with 
Dan  in  the  great  gallery ;  from  below  she  heard  a  voice 
calling  out  quick  orders,  and  then  the  regular  beat  of 
retreating  footsteps.  She  stood  with  lifted  head,  listening ; 
not  daring  to  trust  her  ears,  she  climbed  panting  to  the 
observatory  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and  already  far  down 
the  road,  her  wondering  eyes  could  distinguish  the  handful 
of  Federal  soldiers  led  by  their  officer. 

The  little  woman  owned  a  grateful  heart  and  a  soul 
steeped  in  piety. 

"  May  the  Lord  bless  him ! "   she  said  fervently,  - 
"  may  the  Lord  bless  him  and  keep  him !  " 

Assured  of  safety,  she  ran  out  to  the  cornfield,  calling 
with  caution,  but  almost  gayly,  in  her  sweet  high  voice,  - 

"  Soldier,  soldier,  you  can  come  out  now ;  the  Yanks 
have  gone ! " 

"  Oh,  Lord,  Miss  Etty,  is  that  you?  " 

Miss  Etty  started  back  with  a  cry  of  alarm,  for  the  voice 
had  come  from  the  ground  at  her  feet.  From  out  of  the 
shock  of  corn  by  her  side,  peered  a  white  face,  at  the  sight 
of  which,  with  another  little  cry,  she  sat  down  among  the 
stubble.  Her  pretty  white  dress  was  soiled  and  creased  as, 
half  laughing,  half  sobbing,  she  helped  to  drag  away  the 
cornstalks  to  disclose  a  woful  figure. 

"  Oh,  Dick,  Dick !  —  and  I  kept  trying  to  think  it 
wasn't  you." 

"  It 's  I,  all  that 's  left  of  me,  Miss  Etty  dear." 

There  was  not  much  left  but  undying  pluck. 


138  THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE. 

When  Miss  Etty  looked  at  him,  lying  unconscious  in 
the  bed  to  which  he  was  hurried,  she  revoked  the  blessing 
called  down  on  his  pursuer. 

Six  weeks  before,  led  by  his  good  angel,  Richard 
McCulloch  had  staggered  half  dead  into  the  old  Peninsula 
House.  He  was  wounded  and  ill ;  he  was  very  young  and 
dressed  in  rags  of  what  had  been  the  dearly  loved  gray. 

These  were  arguments  sufficient  to  make  Miss  Etty  take 
him  into  her  starved  heart ;  but  there  was  added  a  likeness 
to  her  brother,  —  the  young  brother  who,  after  having 
been  forgiven  unto  seventy  times  seven,  had  suddenly 
disappeared  from  among  them.  His  sister  had  to  bear 
the  burden  alone  when  death  came  to  the  Peninsula  and 
the  broken-hearted  old  father  and  mother  were  taken. 

When  the  grim  visitant  came  again  searching  for  the 
stranger  within  her  gates,  Miss  Etty  had  once  more  wrestled 
bravely  with  him ;  and  this  time,  having  the  patient's 
strength  and  youth  as  allies,  she  won. 

Dick,  as  his  nurse  learned  to  call  him,  was  soon  hob 
bling  about,  convalescent ;  and  although  he  fretted  not  a 
little  under  his  enforced  inaction,  the  young  soldier  awakened 
life  wonderfully  in  the  old  house.  He  laughed  aloud,  and 
amused  himself  by  teaching  his  half-frightened  hostess  to 
echo  it.  But  he  was  always  scrupulously  gentle  with  her ; 
there  was  that  about  the  little  lady  which  called  out  a  fine 
chivalry  in  men.  She  grew  young  again  and  quite  merry 
by  contagion,  poor  little  soul ! 

Dan,  the  old  slave,  alone  held  morosely  aloof  from  this 
new  gayety.  The  main  spring  of  his  life  had  stopped 
with  his  master's  death  ;  perversity  seemed  now  his  only 
trait.  Even  to  Miss  Etty  he  yielded  but  grudging  obedi 
ence,  and  to  the  intruder  none. 


THE  OLD   PENINSULA   HOUSE.  139 

It  was  soon  after  McCulloch's  coming  that  Miss  Etty 
began  riding  into  town  by  herself  when  supplies  were 
needed ;  and  Dan  was  not  only  irritated  by  being  left 
behind,  but  rendered  suspicious  and  uneasy.  His  queru 
lous  loyalty  for  the  old  house  he  had  served,  sharpened  his 
wits  and  set  him  watching.  He  was  positive  thai  the 
pantry  was  full  one  day  when  his  mistress  ordered  her 
horse  and  rode  away  for  the  second  time  in  a  week.  The 
old  man  mounted  her  in  eloquent  silence,  and  stood  look 
ing  after  the  little  figure  swaying  in  the  saddle  under  the 
trees  which  arched  over  the  road  ;  he  turned  away,  shak 
ing  his  head  dubiously,  and  scowled  up  at  the  window 
where  McCulloch  sat  watching  the  same  sight.  What  had 
such  as  she  to  do  with  the  affairs  of  nations  ? 

Perhaps  the  vague  suggestion  of  some  such  thought 
was  floating  in  the  old  negro's  mind ;  it  was  certainly  in 
the  mind  of  Richard  McCulloch. 

Miss  Etty  received  a  warm  welcome  from  the  keeper  of 
the  country-store  in  Rivertown,  when  he  saw  her  enter  his 
door. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Trot,  I  'm  very  pleased  to  see 
you  to-day ;  but  then  I  always  am,  you  know.  Hot  day 
for  a  ride.  Water  ?  Certainly,  Miss.  Perhaps  you 
would  n't  mind  stepping  into  my  office  and  helping  your 
self,  nice  and  cool  there.  You  might  sit  and  rest  a  spell." 

The  room  was  crowded  with  the  usual  village  loungers ; 
and  Miss  Etty,  threading  her  way  through  them,  dis 
appeared  in  the  little  back -office. 

She  shut  the  door  after  her,  locked  it  with  noiseless 
caution,  then  with  a  swiftness  of  action  which  betokened 
habit,  drew  a  key  from  behind  a  pile  of  books  and  opened 
the  door  of  a  small  closet ;  on  one  of  its  shelves  lay  a 


140  THE  OLD  PENINSULA   HOUSE. 

packet  of  papers  and  a  Confederate  uniform.  The  papers 
she  at  once  disposed  of  by  hiding  them  in  her  bosom  ; 
The  uniform  remained  a  problem.  She  stood  with  her 
finger  on  her  lip,  pondering.  There  was  no  one  to  see 
her,  and  yet  as  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty  presented  itself 
to  her  mind,  she  blushed  crimson  and  shrank  back  as 
though  another's  suggestion  had  shocked  her  sensitive 
maidenhood. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  woman  that  while  the  hot 
blood  was  yet  in  her  cheeks  she  began  to  divest  herself  of 
her  riding-habit.  The  gray  coat  was  twisted  into  an  in 
glorious  bustle ;  the  cap,  Miss  Etty  set  on  her  head,  push 
ing  her  own  hat  down  over  it,  binding  the  shaky  structure 
together  with  her  thick  veil.  When  it  came  to  the  trou 
sers,  she  flushed  again,  but  picked  them  up  bravely  and 
plunged  in  like  a  little  man ;  alas,  the  garment  had  been 
cut  for  a  big  one,  and  she  found  herself  floundering  in 
cloth  that  dangled  at  length  over  each  foot.  It  was  un 
fortunate  that  she  should  have  caught  sight  of  her  figure 
reflected  in  a  looking-glass  at  that  moment ;  Miss  Etty  had 
to  struggle  with  an  inclination  to  cry  in  consequence.  At 
last  by  sitting  on  the  floor  she  found  that  she  was  able  to 
turn  the  ends  of  the  trousers  up  to  her  knees,  and  when 
she  rose  to  her  feet  again  the  deed  was  accomplished.  With 
one  glance  of  fearful  fascination  at  the  mirror,  Miss  Etty 
hurried  her  riding-skirt  over  the  horrid  sight. 

When  she  walked  out  into  the  store  afterwards,  and 
bought  corn-meal  at  the  counter,  there  was  no  sign  of 
disturbance  in  her  face,  and  in  figure  she  only  seemed  a 
little  stouter  and  taller.  The  store-keeper  followed  her  to 
the  horse-block,  and  lifted  her  bodily  to  the  saddle;  as 
he  settled  the  stirrup,  he  looked  up  admiringly. 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE.  141 

"  If  that  don't  beat  all!  "  he  whispered ;  "  and  you  no 
bigger  than  my  thumb,  either !  " 

Although  Rivertown  was  presumably  well  sentried  by 
Federal  troops,  little  Miss  Etty  Trot  never  had  any  diffi 
culty  in  going  in  and  out.  She  stopped  now,  as  usual,  to 
chat  with  the  sentry  ;  but  this  time  he  caught  at  her  bridle, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  'Pears  to  me  you  set  higher  than  when  you  came  in," 
he  said. 

She  knew  him  too  well  to  be  much  frightened,  and 
made  no  attempt  to  ride  on ;  she  even  looked  down  at 
him  and  laughed  also. 

With  a  good-natured  wink  the  man  released  the  horse, 
and  moved  aside.  Dick  screamed  with  laughter  when  Miss 
Etty  explained  that  she  had  winked  back  to  keep  him  in  a 
good  humour. 

'•But  the  uniform,  Miss  Etty  dear!  —  the  brand-new 
uniform !  "  cried  the  delighted  soldier.  "  I  was  thinking  1 
should  have  to  go  clothed  in  my  virtue.  How  did  you  get 
that  through  ? " 

To  this  he  could  get  no  answer ;  Miss  Etty  blushed  and 
hung  her  head,  but  kept  her  secret. 

Much  sooner  than  either  of  them  expected  the  uniform 
was  to  be  worn.  When  McCulloch  glanced  through  the 
papers  Miss  Etty  handed  over  to  him,  he  started  to  his  feet, 
exclaimed  aloud  in  his  excitement,  and  rushed  off  to  the 
depleted  stables  to  order  that  the  best  horse  left  should  be 
saddled  immediately. 

In  the  hurry  of  his  departure  Miss  Etty  had  no  time  for 
questions ;  but  as  she  ran  out  into  the  road  and  stood  by 
his  stirrup,  he  bent  down  for  a  last  word  and  a  half 
explanation. 


142  THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE. 

She  caught  the  words,  "  General  Lee,"  "  urgency,"  and 
"  news  of  greatest  importance."  Then  in  the  midst  of 
her  pleading  reminder  of  his  just-healed  wound  he  was 
gone. 

Within  an  hour  he  had  returned  to  her,  as  has  been  told, 
on  foot,  hunted,  all  but  taken. 

When  he  recovered  consciousness,  his  faithful  nurse  was 
sitting  by  his  bedside,  dropping  hot  tears  on  the  twitching 
hand  she  held  in  hers. 

"MissEtty  —  " 

"  Oh,  hush,  my  dear !  I  have  sent  Dan  for  the  doctor ; 
you  must  not  try  to  speak." 

"  But  I  must  —  General  Lee  —  the  papers  —  " 

He  motioned  impatiently  toward  the  stimulant  which 
she  had  been  giving  him,  and  after  taking  it  he  spoke 
more  strongly. 

"  My  horse  was  shot  under  me.  1  managed  to  hide 
the  papers  under  a  stone.  Miss  Etty  — 

She  bent  her  ear  close  to  his  lips.  As  she  listened  to 
his  whispers,  her  face  grew  graver  and  graver. 

"  You  see,  the  general  must  know,"  said  the  young" 
man,  feverishly. 

"  Yes." 

"  The  doctor  is  loyal ;  he  can  take  the  message.  Will 
he  never  come  ?  " 

"  You  forget  how  old  the  doctor  is,  Dick.  It  is  forty 
miles  to  ride,  and  over  the  mountain." 

"  But  the  general  must  know." 

"  Yes,  the  general  must  know.  My  dear,  my  dear,  how 
can  I  leave  you !  " 

Dick  struggled  up  on  his  elbow.  "  You  —  you  —  would 
you  dare  ? " 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE.  143 

"  Hush !  You  must  let  me  think.  You  will  be  needing 
me  every  moment." 

He  fell  back  in  his  bed  and  watched  her  with  wonder ; 
she  was  already  kneeling,  and  like  a  little  child  she  folded 
her  hands  together. 

"O  Lord,  direct  me;  for  I  have  lost  my  way,"  he 
heard  her  murmur. 

"  Amen,"  McCulloch  whispered. 

After  a  pause  he  spoke  again,  "The  woods  are  al 
ways  thickest  and  darkest  where  the  light  begins,  Miss 
Etty." 

The  little  figure  rose,  pathetically  tiny  even  when  stand 
ing.  She  bent  over  him,  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

"  Good-by,  my  dear,"  she  said  simply. 

When  Dan  arrived  with  the  old  doctor,  the  cook  was  in 
the  sick-room,  and  the  only  one  who  could  have  ex 
plained  Miss  Etty's  disappearance  was  wild  and  incoherent 
with  fever. 

The  hot  sun  went  down  in  the  heavens,  and  the  edge 
of  the  white  moon  came  up ;  from  her  horse's  back  Miss 
Etty  watched  the  setting  and  rising. 

"  It  must  be  hard  never  to  see  the  end  of  anything," 
she  thought.  "  Now,  the  sun  will  never  know  if  1  reach 
General  Lee,  unless  the  moon  tells  him." 

She  would  not  think  serious  thoughts ;  she  did  not  dare. 
Putting  them  resolutely  aside,  Miss  Etty  had  gone  back  in 
memory  to  the  days  before  these  troubles  came.  Trivial 
things  lived  vividly  in  her  memory  ;  she  was  a  child  once 
more,  playing  with  her  brother,  swinging  in  grape-vine 
swings,  and  hunting  water-snakes  on  the  river-bank, —  es 
pecially  the  wily  serpent  which  always  escaped  them.  When 
at  last  a  chance  blow  from  her  stick  killed  it,  she  had  cried 


144  THE  OLD  PENINSULA   HOUSE. 

inconsolably,  and  could  only  explain  that  she  did  n't  know 
she  loved  it. 

At  this  reflection  Miss  Etty  laughed  aloud,  and  started. 
The  child  became  Miss  Etty  Trot  again  on  a  mission  of  life 
or  death  to  many. 

The  dark  hours  before  the  moon  came  up  had  not  been 
so  hard  to  bear  as  these  with  ghostly  shadows  cast  upon 
the  road.  In  this  mysterious  light,  her  imagination  roused, 
she  saw  a  man  in  every  tree  and  stump  ;  before  each  bend 
of  the  road  she  lived  through  a  capture,  and  turned  every 
fence-corner  with  a  heart  which  beat  to  suffocation. 

An  ever-present  consciousness  of  the  sick-room  left  be 
hind  came  also,  and  stayed,  —  an  undercurrent  of  trouble. 
Yet  steadily  on  in  the  dim  light,  led  by  her  tremulous 
bravery,  the  little  woman  rode  over  mountain,  valley,  and 
river  to  her  general's  camp. 

"  A  lady  to  see  General  Lee  at  this  hour  of  night ! 
Impossible ! " 

It  was  the  aide  speaking  sharply  to  a  soldier  standing 
at  the  entrance  of  the  general's  tent. 

The  man  explained  that  she  would  give  her  message  to 
no  one  else. 

"  Then  tell  her  she  must  wait  until  morning." 

A  voice  came  from  inside.  "Bring  her  here  to  me," 
it  said. 

The  soldier  saluted  the  voice  and  departed  into  the 
darkness  as  he  had  come.  The  aide  went  back  into  the 
tent  and,  his  eyes  heavy  with  sleep,  sat  down  by  the  table 
where  General  Lee  was  writing. 

At  a  challenge  from  the  sentry,  he  rose  and  held  back 
the  canvas  flap ;  through  the  opening,  Miss  Etty  Trot 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE.  145 

entered,  looking  almost  a  child  in  her  close-fitting  riding- 
habit. 

General  Lee  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her  with 
extreme  surprise ;  then  rising  quickly,  he  crossed  the 
floor  to  meet  her. 

"  What  can  1  do  for  you  ? "  he  asked  kindly. 

With  no  preamble,  Miss  Etty  lifted  her  face,  and  in 
low  tones  told  the  story  she  had  come  to  tell.  Her  hair, 
loosened  by  her  long  ride,  fell  in  little  curling  tendrils.  A 
soft  flush  spread  over  her  delicate  features,  her  breath 
came  quickly;  but  she  stood  with  the  quiet  of  high 
breeding,  and  spoke  simply.  General  Grant  was  to  cross 
the  river  the  next  day,  with  the  intention  of  surprising  the 
army. 

The  grave  importance  of  her  news  was  reflected  in 
General  Lee's  face,  as  he  bent  his  noble  head  lower  and 
lower  toward  her,  listening  with  rapt  attention. 

To  the  artistic  eye  of  the  young  officer,  standing  in  the 
background,  he  seemed  the  embodiment  of  thoughtful 
strength,  and  she  of  eager  enthusiasm.  The  peculiar  sweet 
ness  of  her  high"  voice,  even  in  its  whispers,  caught  his 
ear;  and  his  admiration  for  the  two  contrasting  figures, 
standing  out  against  the  white  wall,  deepened  as  he  grasped 
their  meaning  better. 

Picking  up  an  old  envelope,  he  pencilled  a  hasty  sketch 
on  its  back.  Beneath  it,  with  the  enthusiasm  ot  a  sad 
prescience,  he  wrote:  "How  the  Confederacy  held  out  so 
long."  This  scrap  of  paper  is  still  among  his  most 
cherished  possessions. 

After  Miss  Etty  had  delivered  her  message,  and  answered 
a  few  pertinent  questions,  she  knew  that  her  work  was 
done  ;  and  there  being  no  further  need  of  heroism,  it  took 


146  THE   OLD   PENINSULA   HOUSE. 

flight,  leaving  her  trembling.  General  Lee's  quick  eye 
noted  this. 

"  And  you  have  ridden  forty  miles  by  night  to  tell  me 
this !  "  he  said. 

The  personal  question  confused  Miss  Etty,  while  vener 
ation  for  the  speaker  overwhelmed  her.  As  she  faltered 
out  an  answer,  a  smile  of  exquisite  enjoyment  passed  over 
the  face  of  the  general's  aide.  His  commander's  counte 
nance  remained  immovable,  and  the  little  lady  never  knew 
that  she  had  said  "  yes,  ma'am,"  to  the  great  soldier.  His 
next  question  was  even  more  kindly  and  gentle. 

"  My  dear  child,  how  could  your  father  let  you  go  ? " 

"  I  am  thirty-three.  My  father  is  dead,  and  there  was 
no  one  else." 

There  was  something  infinitely  touching  about  her  as 
she  stood  tremulously  asserting  her  loneliness. 

General  Lee's  manner  of  gentle  deference,  his  generous 
appreciation  of  the  service  she  had  rendered,  failed  to 
reassure  her.  She  was  still  flushed  and  trembling  when, 
with  his  words  of  grave  praise  and  farewell  still  ringing  in 
her  ears,  she  left  the  tent  in  the  escort  of  the  aide,  quarters 
having  been  hastily  arranged  for  her  in  a  crowded  farm 
house  close  by. 

But  despite  Miss  Etty's  awe,  her  eyes  had  noted  a  brass 
button  which  lay  upon  the  half-written  page  on  the  table, 
and  they  had  fastened  upon  it  hungrily  more  than  once, 
not  unobserved  by  the  younger  officer.  As  he  bade  her 
good-night  at  the  farmhouse,  he  laid  something  hard  and 
round  in  her  hand ;  when  she  could  examine  it,  she 
found  it  was  the  coveted  brass  button. 

Miss  Etty  fell  asleep  that  night  like  a  happy  child, 
with  the  bit  of  metal  clasped  close  in  her  hand  ;  and  when 


THE  OLD   PENINSULA   HOUSE.  147 

she  awoke  deep  in  the  next  day,  the  great  army  was 
gone. 

Then,  although  her  hospitable  host  made  every  effort 
to  detain  her,  she  would  not  rest  longer.  Her  duties  were 
taken  as  they  came,  and  Dick  was  next  in  order. 

Poor  Dick !  Dan  met  his  mistress  at  the  door  of  the 
Peninsula  House,  dolefully  shaking  his  head. 

"He's  boun'  ter  go,  honey,"  he  said  with  unctuous 
enjoyment  of  woe. 

Miss  Etty  ran  up  the  stair,  straight  from  her  horse's 
back  to  Dick's  bedside.  With  the  first  glance  at  his  face, 
her  heart  sank.  He  looked  at  her  with  vague,  unseeing 
eyes ;  even  her  voice  failed  to  rouse  him. 

Her  own  weariness  and  long  journey  were  forgotten. 
She  left  the  sick-room  only  to  change  her  riding-habit  for 
her  usual  home  gown,  and  to  fasten  General  Lee's  button 
in  the  button-hole  at  her  throat.  Again  and  again 
through  the  long  watches  of  that  night,  she  gained  cour 
age  from  the  touch  of  the  hard  metal  against  her  soft 
chin. 

"  1  am  thankful  I  sewed  it  there,"  she  thought;  "I 
should  never  have  been  able  to  touch  it,  with  my  hands  so 
busy." 

They  were  full  to  overflowing,  for  she  had  many  parts 
to  play.  Dick  did  not  know  her  as  "  Miss  Etty."  First 
she  was  "  mother,"  and  in  that  character  a  perfected 
actress ;  in  her  soothing  touch  and  voice,  he  missed 
nothing  that  he  called  for.  It  was  less  easy  to  be  "  John," 
and  to  listen  calmly  to  broken  stories  of  flood  and  field,  of 
home  and  boy  life.  But  it  was  almost  unbearable  to  her 
when  she  became  "  Alice."  Dick  called  out  against  her 
as  heartless,  faithless ;  and  it  hurt  her  unreasonably. 


148  THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE. 

When  he  caught  her  hands  and  covered  them  with  pas 
sionate  kisses,  pouring  out  burning  words,  the  primitive 
little  maiden-lady  shrank  and  shrivelled.  She  was  fright 
ened  and  bewildered  beyond  measure  under  this  delirious 
wooing ;  but  she  stood  bravely  at  her  post,  and  at  last  he 
knew  her. 

''Is  it  you  ?  Does  the  general  know  ?  Were  you 
in  time  ? " 

"  Yes,  the  general  knows,  Dick.  I  was  in  time.  The 
army  is  safe."  She  vainly  tried  to  steady  her  voice. 

At  its  tremulous  note,  McCulloch  looked  up  and  read 
his  fate  in  her  face  as  in  an  open  book. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  lay  so  still  that  Miss  Etty 
thought  him  unconscious;  but  as  she  bent  over  him,  with 
the  fictitious  strength  of  fever,  he  took  her  hand  and  drew 
a  seal-ring  from  his  finger,  fitting  it  on  hers.  The  signifi 
cance  of  his  action  almost  broke  her  heart. 

"Ah,  no,  no!"  she  began,  sobbing;  but  he  stopped 
her  with  the  ghost  of  his  old  smile. 

"  Don't,  Miss  Etty  dear ;  did  you  think  I  should  be 
afraid  ?  " 

And  then  he  began  to  ramble  again,  wandering  among 
the  places  of  this  world,  strange  to  his  nurse,  and  a  little 
later,  among  the  many  mansions  of  another,  strange  to 
us  all. 

Miss  Etty  was  once  more  left  alone  in  the  old  Peninsula 
House. 

Twelve  years  had  gone  by  since  the  day  Richard 
McCulloch's  mother  received  two  letters  which  had  strug 
gled  through  the  lines  together.  One  was  from  Dick, 
telling  of  his  wound  and  illness,  and  dwelling  with  affec- 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA   HOUSE.  149 

tionate  humour  on  his  quaint  little  nurse.    The  second  bore 
a  later  date,  and  was  signed  "  Henrietta  Trot." 

From  this  letter  the  mother  learned  that  her  son  would 
never  return.  "  We  have  laid  his  mortal  remains  in  the 
southern  corner  of  our  graveyard,  dressed  in  the  uniform 
he  wore  in  life,  and  looking  toward  the  country  he  loved 
and  died  to  save,"  wrote  Miss  Etty,  in  her  somewhat  old- 
fashioned  phrases. 

The  great  wave  of  war  sweeping  over  the  country  had 
washed  away  Mrs.  McCulloch's  patrimony  as  a  house  of 
cards ;  it  was  not  in  her  power  to  fulfil  the  wish  of  her 
heart  that  her  son's  body  should  lie  in  the  graveyard  of 
his  native  town  among  his  brother-soldiers. 

Like  thousands  of  her  Southern  sisters,  who  resentfully 
survived  the  wreck,  she  struggled  on,  widowed,  childless, 
with  but  one  hope  and  aim  in  the  world.  For  this  end 
she  worked  with  feverish  energy ;  for  this  she  stinted  her 
self  in  food  and  raiment. 

One  night,  when  almost  twelve  years  had  passed,  her 
hope  seemed  incredibly  near  a  certainty.  She  sat  in  her 
sparely  furnished  room,  in  front  of  the  table  on  which 
was  spread  neatly  assorted  piles  of  clean  bank-notes. 

"  Two  hundred  and  seventy-five,"  she  counted,  —  "  two 
hundred  and  eighty,   ninety,"  —  her  voice  trembled,— 
"  ninety -two,  ninety-seven." 

She  opened  her  reticule,  took  from  it  three  one-dollar 
bills,  and  laid  them  with  the  rest.  "  Three  hundred 
dollars,"  whispered  the  woman  who  had  spent  that  sum 
on  a  single  gown  in  a  past  now  almost  incredible,  —"three 
hundred  dollars,"  she  repeated  in  an  awe-struck  murmur, 
and  then  burst  into  tears.  Some  of  the  warm  drops  fell 
on  the  bank-notes ;  she  wiped  them  jealously  away  with 


150  THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE. 

her  handkerchief:  "  You  are  to  bring  me  back  my  boy," 
she  said,  fingering  the  notes  tenderly. 

The  sum  she  had  set  herself  to  earn  and  save  had 
fluctuated  in  her  keeping.  Sometimes  a  season  of  little 
work  had  obliged  her  to  draw  upon  it,  sometimes  illness 
had  diminished  the  hoard ;  but  now  it  was  all  there,  and 
she  gloated  over  it.  She  had  trusted  her  treasure  to  no 
bank,  to  no  other  keeping  than  her  own. 

She  sat  thinking  intently,  for  now  she  could  go  no 
further  without  help;  to  whom  could  she  confide  this 
sacred  trust? 

Mrs.  McCulloch  ran  over  in  her  mind  the  list  of  names 
of  those  friends  whose  proffered  aid  she  had  hitherto 
proudly  refused,  deliberately  choosing  her  grief  as  her 
stern  and  sole  companion. 

At  last  she  settled  on  Colonel  John  Bassett ;  he  had  been 
her  son's  friend,  and  General  Lee's  aide,  —  what  better 
credentials  could  one  ask  ?  She  slept  that  night  with  the 
price  of  her  boy's  home-coming  beneath  her  pillow,  and 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning  sought  Colonel  Bassett's 
office  with  the  precious  package  in  her  hand. 

Although  the  brave  soldier  was  now  the  busy  lawyer, 
he  laid  by  his  work  instantly  on  her  entrance,  receiving 
her  with  cordial  greeting ;  and  when  she  told  him  the 
purpose  of  her  visit,  his  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears. 

His  old  comrade's  mother  had  rejected  every  offer  of 
material  assistance;  had  he  but  chanced  to  think  of  it, 
here  was  something  he  might  have  done  years  ago.  As 
he  looked  at  her  worn,  triumphant  face  and  joy-lit  eyes, 
at  the  hardly-earned  money,  —  contrasting  it  with  his  own 
comparatively  easily  made  hundreds,  —  Colonel  Bassett 
bent  quickly  forward  and  gathered  her  hands  into  his. 


"HE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE.  151 

"  My  dear  old  friend,  let  me—  '  was  on  his  lips,  but 
a  finer  instinct  withheld  him;  he  drew  back,  folded  the 
money  together,  and  locked  it  in  his  safe.  "  I  will  see  to 
it  all  personally,"  he  said ;  "you  may  take  all  care  in  this 
matter  from  off  your  heart." 

When  Mrs.  McCulloch  gave  Colonel  Bassett  Miss  Etty's 
letter,  he  repeated  the  signature  aloud,  thoughtfully. 

"  Henrietta  Trot,"  he  said,  "  1  have  surely  heard  that 
name  before.  Henrietta  Trot  —  no,  I  don't  place  it.  The 
directions  are  clear,  however,  and  the  grave  will  be  easy  to 
find.  You  may  trust  all  to  me,  Mrs.  McCulloch ;  "  and  with 
a  heart  softened  by  grateful  tears,  Mrs.  McCulloch  left  the 
office. 

On  the  day  of  Richard  McCulloch's  reinterment,  all 
the  town,  in  carriages  and  on  foot,  followed  the  hearse 
and  its  military  escort  to  the  cemetery.  Those  who  did 
not  know  the  details  of  the  mother's  sacrifice,  guessed 
them,  and  wished  to  pay  respect  to  the  brave  son,  and 
perhaps  braver  mother. 

Mrs.  McCulloch,  leaning  on  Colonel  Bassett's  arm, 
stood  close  to  the  open  grave,  shedding  not  unhappy  tears. 
She  could  hear  the  wailing  melody  of  the  funeral  march, 
and  see  the  dear  defeated  banner  waving  above  her. 

"  Dust  to  dust,  ashes  to  ashes." 

The  remnant  of  Dick's  regiment  drew  up,  —  some  of 
its  individual  members  mere  remnants  themselves,  —  and 
three  volleys  of  musketry  fired  over  the  grave  finished  the 
solemn  ceremony. 

When  Colonel  Bassett  handed  the  remainder  of  Mrs. 
McCulloch's  money  to  her,  it  was  a  sum  so  much  larger 
than  she  had  expected,  that  she  exclaimed  in  surprise,  — 

"  Why,  there  is  enough  left  to  pay  for  the  monument, 


152  THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE. 

and  have  everything  just  as  I  longed  to  see  it !  "  she  said, 
flushing  with  pleasure.  "  But,  Colonel  Bassett,  are  you 
quite  sure  that  1  owe  nothing  more  ?  Have  1  paid 
everything  ?  " 

"  1  have  settled  every  bill,  I  assure  you,"  he  answered, 
and  had  the  reward  of  seeing  the  anxious  question  which 
had  risen  in  her  eyes  fade  away. 

"  She  is  a  changed  woman,"  thought  Colonel  Bassett, 
when  the  monument  was  at  last  in  place,  and  he  watched 
Mrs.  McCulloch  bending  lovingly  over  the  grave,  —  "she 
is  a  changed  woman.  Those  poor  bones  and  that  cold 
marble  have  softened  her  as  a  flesh  and  blood  child  might. 
Better  so,  perhaps ;  those  cannot  be  taken  from  her." 

Yet  the  next  morning's  mail  brought  him  the  following 
letter,  - 
COL.  JOHN  BASSETT: 

SIR,  —  I  demand  that  you  at  once  return  the  body  of  my  sister, 
Miss  Etty  Trot,  which  you  stole  from  our  family  graveyard  two  weeks 
ago.  I  understand  that  you  identified  it  as  the  body  of  one  Richard 
McCulloch  by  a  seal  ring  and  a  Confederate  button.  The  ring  was 
given  to  my  sister  by  said  Richard  McCulloch  on  his  death-bed,  and 
the  button  was  a  gift  from  General  Lee.  Both  mementos  were  buried 
with  her  by  her  request.  Expecting  immediate  restitution  on  your 
part.  Truly, 

S.  V.  L.  C.  TROT. 

"Trot,  — Miss  Etty  Trot,"  repeated  Colonel  Bassett; 
"  that  was  the  name.  General  Lee's  button,  —  1  gave  it 
to  her  myself." 

It  was  all  coming  back  to  him  now,  dropping  down 
from  some  shelf  in  his  memory  where  it  had  lain  hidden. 
He  took  up  an  old  portfolio,  and  from  among  its  con 
tents,  selected  a  packet,  on  the  back  of  which  was  written, 
"  Sketches  of  General  Lee," 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA   HOUSE.  153 

He  turned  them  over  gently,  as  men  finger  treasures, 
and  drew  out  one  which  he  laid  on  the  table  before  him. 
It  was  evidently  a  hasty  drawing,  made  on  the  back  of  an 
old  envelope;  but  it  was  a  vivid  reproduction  of  the 
meeting  between  Miss  Etty  and  General  Lee,  which  he  had 
witnessed  when  the  general's  aide. 

"  There  she  is,"  he  exclaimed  triumphantly.  There  are 
some  people  who,  although  seen  but  once  and  then  perhaps 
briefly,  have  yet  the  power  to  touch  a  chord  in  our  hearts 
which  vibrates  to-morrow,  or  even  twelve  years  after,  as 
to-day. 

Colonel  Bassett  looked  affectionately  at  the  drawing  of 
the  tiny  figure. 

"  And  so  it  is  you  we  have  buried  with  military  honours. 
Bless  your  poor  little  bones !  "  he  said,  laughing.  "  Well, 
no  man  deserved  it  better." 

He  thought  of  the  men  of  the  dead  regiment  she  lay 
among,  and  of  the  monument  over  the  gentle  little  lady, 
which  spoke  of  "war's  alarms"  and  a  "  hero  dead,"  and 
laughed  aloud,  thinking  how  Dick  himself  would  have 
enjoyed  the  joke.  Then  he  suddenly  remembered  Dick's 
mother,  and  his  laughter  ended  abruptly.  What  was  this 
going  to  mean  to  her  ? 

What  it  meant  to  Colonel  Bassett  was  a  trip  to  the 
Peninsula  House  by  the  next  train. 

On  his  arrival  there,  he  found  Mr.  S.  V.  L.  C.  Trot 
established  in  the  house  of  his  fathers  after  fifteen  years' 
absence. 

A  weakling  in  intellect  and  morals,  he  was  dominated 
by  the  old  slave  Dan,  who,  ever  since  Miss  Etty's  death, 
had  been  seeking  this  degenerate  son,  and  had  now  brought 
him  home  to  reign  over  rack  and  ruin. 


154  THE  OLD  PENINSULA  HOUSE. 

Dan  was  old  and  bent  and  hideous,  with  a  face  like  an 
ape.  It  was  on  him  that  the  weight  of  testimony  fell. 
He  had  buried  Richard  McCulloch,  and  his  mistress  had 
read  the  funeral  service,  which  was  more  than  many  of 
the  dead  received  in  those  troublous  days. 

"An'  you  didn't  have  no  right  to  come  a-gobblin'  up 
our  bones,"  he  growled  to  Colonel  Bassett. 

But  Colonel  Bassett  would  not  be  antagonized.  He 
explained  patiently  that  he  would  willingly  have  asked 
permission,  had  any  one  been  there  to  give  it;  but  he 
found  the  homestead  deserted  and  rank  with  weeds.  The 
body  was  lying  in  the  southern  corner,  as  described  in  the 
letter,  and  he  had  supposed  that  all  was  correct. 

Dan  led  Colonel  Bassett  out  to  the  graveyard,  and 
illustrated  the  story  on  the  spot. 

"  Miss  Etty,  she  got  it  inter  her  hade  dat  dar  warnt 
room  fur  but  one  grave  in  dis  corner.  I  knowed  better. 
Dar  warnt  no  use  in  ways'in'  good  groun,'  nor  in  talkin'  to 
her,  nuther,  when  she  got  sot.  1  jes'  eased  it  along  in  de 
diggin'.  Miss  Etty,  she  rared  'bout  it ;  but  't  warnt  no 
use  when  de  diggin'  was  done.  Dar  war  room  fur  anoder 
grave,  too ;  fur  I  buried  her  dar.  1  knowed  ;  but  then 
she  warnt  but  a  scrap." 

It  was  too  plainly  true ;  the  only  question  that  re 
mained  was  how  to  deal  with  the  facts. 

Colonel  Bassett  looked  at  the  vacuous  face  of  the 
shiftless  owner  of  the  Peninsula,  who  was  sitting  on  the 
top  of  the  graveyard  fence,  with  his  feet  hooked  in  the 
lower  rail. 

He  hesitated ;  but  then  the  memory  of  Mrs.  McCulloch's 
face,  with  its  newly-come  peace  softening  it,  rose  before 
him. 


THE  OLD  PENINSULA   HOUSE.  155 

"  It  will  be  but  a  pious  fraud,  after  all,"  he  thought ; 
yet  he  spoke  with  an  effort. 

"  May  I  discuss  this  matter  alone  with  you,  Mr.  Trot  ?  " 
he  asked;  and  Mr.  Trot,  unwinding  his  feet  from  the 
fence-rail,  assented. 

They  walked  to  the  house,  leaving  Dan  swelling  with 
outraged  dignity. 

What  that  interview  cost  Colonel  Bassett's  fine  sense  of 
honour,  no  one  but  himself  will  ever  know ;  what  it  cost 
his  pocket,  is  a  secret  which  Mr.  S.  V.  L.  C.  Trot  shares 
with  him. 

When  Dan  would  have  again  opened  the  question  of 
the  graves,  his  so-called  master,  with  new-born  arrogance, 
bade  him  hold  his  tongue,  —  the  matter  had  been  settled 
between  Colonel  Bassett  and  himself. 

The  old  man  stood  silent,  peering  at  him  from  the 
corners  of  his  blear  eyes. 

"  Hit 's  loose  change,  dang  it !  "  he  muttered  to  himself, 
as  he  turned  away.  "  He  shell  go  on  a  spree  to-morrow. 
Dar  won't  be  no  livin'  wid  him  tell  he  gits  rid  on  it  all." 

On  Decoration  Day  the  south  branch  of  the  Potomac 
ran  brawling  and  quarrelling  about  the  Peninsula,  as  usual. 
By  the  point  of  land  where  the  graveyard  stood,  a  rock 
rose  out  of  the  water;  the  waves  splashed  and  foamed 
against  it,  leaping  high,  as  if  striving  to  reach  the  top, 
and  from  there  look  over  into  the  yard,  where  six  feet  of 
earth  seemed  to  have  burst  into  bloom  in  a  day,  with  rare 
exotic  blossoms,  all  red  and  white.  Old  Dan's  ape -like 
face  bent  over  them,  and  his  black  hands  were  placing  the 
flowers. 

"  Cunnel  Bassett 's  fur  a-smoothin'  him  down  wid  dese, 
is  he?"  he  muttered  contemptuously.     "Miss  Etty,  she 


156  THE  OLD  PENINSULA   HOUSE. 

have  dickered  him  outen  his  bury  in'  do."  He  laughed 
with  a  little  crowing  chuckle,  and  stooped  to  touch  a 
glowing  leaf  with  his  horny  forefinger ;  perhaps  a  sense 
of  tardy  justice  smote  him,  for  he  added,  slowly,  — 

"  He  warnt  half  bad,  nuther,  he  warnt.     I  reckon  ef 
she  likes  hit,  he  ain't  begrutchin'  none  on  it  to  her." 


FIFTEEN    COUNTY    ROCK. 


FIFTEEN  COUNTY  ROCK. 


HOW  the  Rock  came  to  be  there  on  the  mountain-side, 
it  never  quite  knew.  It  held  a  vague  memory  of 
an  intense  cold ;  of  being  swept  powerfully  along  with 
masses  of  snow  and  ice,  —  a  horrible  grinding,  groaning, 
and  crushing ;  after  that,  stillness  for  years  and  years. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  the  great  boulder  even 
learned  to  separate  night  and  day.  Rocks  think  slowly. 
The  sun  beat  down  and  warmed  it  through  and  through 
to  the  very  heart ;  the  soft  mist  and  dampness  wrapped  it 
by  night ;  and  gradually  it  grew  to  know  and  love  them 
all,  —  but  always  loving  most  the  moist,  clinging  clouds 
that  come  by  night  or  by  day. 

From  the  mountain-side  the  boulder  looked  down 
over  what  is  now  called  fifteen  counties.  There,  majestic 
rivers  marched  grandly,  and  tiny  streams,  threading  the 
land,  sought  the  rivers.  These  were  the  life-giving  arteries 
and  veins,  and  by  reason  of  their  being  the  country  smiled. 

Hundreds  of  years  passed,  and  a  deeper  and  deeper 
contentment  settled  down  upon  the  Rock ;  then  it  was 
discovered. 

But  long  before  men  discovered  the  boulder,  the  boul 
der  discovered  men.  It  had  watched  in  the  distance  their 


160  FIFTEEN  COUNTY  ROCK. 

building  of  houses  and  mills,  their  herding  of  cattle  and 
ploughing  of  fields,  and  yet  made  no  attempt  to  intrude. 
But  after  men  discovered  the  Rock,  they  were  always 
climbing  up  from  the  plain  below  to  stand  on  its  back  and 
see  what  it  had  been  looking  at  for  hundreds  of  years. 

Fifteen  County  Rock,  as  they  called  it,  did  not  then 
know  how  to  laugh ;  but  it  learned  this  after  listening  to 
a  man  who  stood  on  its  broad  back  and  pointed  out  an 
ant's  nest  to  a  child.  He  was  laughing  at  the  tiny  workers 
as  he  described  the  division  of  labour  among  them,  —  some 
hurrying  here  and  some  there.  Then  it  was  that  the  Rock 
laughed  to  itself  gently,  remembering  how  human  beings 
had  seemed  when  looked  down  upon  from  above. 

Fifteen  County  Rock  began  to  hear  many  strange 
things  now ;  but  nothing  stirred  it  from  its  deep  content 
ment  until  one  autumn  day  something  very  strange  hap 
pened.  The  sun  had  risen  warm,  but  the  air  was  cool  and 
crisp  with  the  chill  of  the  night  still  in  it ;  everything 
seemed  to  be  alive  and  happy.  A  little  field  on  the 
mountain-side  laughed  aloud  when  the  breeze  passed  over 
it.  Each  small  blade  of  grass  stirred  and  twinkled,  and 
the  tall  ones  bent  double  with  mirth.  There  was  no 
warning  that  anything  unusual  was  to  occur ;  so  the  Rock 
paid  small  attention  when  a  young  man  came  out  of  the 
wood  and  mounted  to  its  topmost  ridge. 

"  Ah ! "  he  cried,  as  he  looked  down ;  then  he  added 
softly,  "what  hath  God  wrought?" 

He  stood  for  a  long  time  motionless,  looking  over  the 
land ;  then  he  took  out  paper  and  pencil  and  sat  down  to 
sketch. 

Presently  a  great  black  dog  ran  out  from  the  bushes, 
leaping  about  him  with  short  barks. 


FIFTEEN  COUNTY  ROCK.  161 

"  Down,  Matt !  "  called  the  man ;  and  the  dog  lay  quiet 
with  his  head  on  the  ground,  but  managed  gradually  to 
crawl  on  his  belly  to  his  master's  side  and  lay  his  head  on 
his  master's  foot. 

The  man  looked  down.  "You  old  goose!"  he  said, 
laughing. 

He  rubbed  the  dog's  head  with  the  end  of  his  pencil  as 
he  spoke,  and  turned  the  sketch  toward  him. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  is  ?  It  is  a  picture,  and 
for  your  rival,  sir;  1  shall  bring  her  here  herself  some 
day." 

He  looked  dreamily  out  at  the  scene  below  him,  until 
the  dog  sat  up  and  recalled  his  attention  by  striking  him 
on  the  knee  with  his  awkward  paw. 

His  master  bent  and  took  the  shaggy  head  between  his 
hands,  while  the  creature  gazed  up  into  his  face  with  eyes 
which  were  like  a  gentle  woman's. 

"  Matt,  Matt,  why  have  n't  you  a  soul  ? "  said  the  man ; 
"  but  perhaps  you  may  have  one  after  all ;  I  sometimes 
think  so.  If  you  have,  look  !  " 

He  caught  the  dog's  collar,  led  him  to  the  edge  of  the 
Rock,  and  pointed  below.  But  the  dog  only  beat  his  tail 
on  the  ground  and  looked  down  uneasily ;  then  at  some 
sound  in  the  bushes,  he  slobbered,  broke  away,  and 
ran  off. 

"  Matt  is  surely  of  the  beasts  that  perish,"  said  the 
man ;  and  there  was  disappointment  in  his  voice.  He 
finished  his  sketch  hastily,  and  then  went  back  into  the 
wood,  whistling  on  his  way. 

"  A  soul !  "  thought  the  Rock.    "  What  is  a  soul  ? " 

This  was  the  first  time  that  it  had  ever  heard  of  such  a 
thing,  and  it  grew  curious  and  longed  to  know  more  ;  but 


162       .  FIFTEEN  COUNTY  ROCK. 

though  it  listened  and  listened,  of  the  many  who  climbed 
up  the  mountain,  none  talked  of  souls. 

At  last  came  a  party  of  young  girls  with  little  hammers 
in  their  hands,  and  bags  swinging  by  their  sides.  An  eld 
erly  man  was  with  them,  who  talked  long  and  earnestly. 

"  Glacial  striations,  marginal  moraines,  roches  mouton- 
nees,"  was  what  he  spoke  of,  while  the  Rock  listened 
patiently,  though  it  understood  nothing. 

Finally,  the  word  it  had  been  waiting  so  long  to  hear, 
was  used. 

"  I  am  sometimes  led  to  believe  that  there  exists,  even 
in  rock  and  stone,  a  species  of  soul,  of  being,  a  —  a  —  " 

"An  innate  soul,  Professor?"  asked  the  prettiest  of 
the  young  girls. 

"  Yes,  yes,  exactly  ;  that  was  good,  good,  very  good." 

When  the  professor  left,  the  girls  crowded  about  the 
pretty  one  who  had  spoken. 

"What  did  you  mean?"  they  asked.  "We  did  not 
understand.  What  is  an  innate  soul  ?  " 

The  Rock  waited  with  deep  anxiety  for  her  answer. 

She  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter.  "  I  have  not  an 
idea,"  she  cried. 

Then  they  all  laughed  their  careless  gay  laughter. 

"The  professor  knew,"  thought  Fifteen  County  Rock, 
in  its  disappointment.  "  It  may  be  that  I  have  a  soul." 

Twice  in  that  same  day  did  it  hear  the  word.  An  old 
man  in  clerical  dress  and  with  long  white  hair  climbed 
stiffly  up  its  rough  side  ;  he  shaded  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  and  looked  out  at  the  setting  sun  from  under  his 
bushy  white  eyebrows. 

"  My  soul  doth  magnify  the  Lord,"  he  said  over  and 
over  again. 


FIFTEEN  COUNTY  ROCK.  163 

There  was  a  young  man  with  him  who  listened  and 
said  nothing. 

Presently  a  party  of  tourists  came,  —  men  and  women, 
—  chattering  and  laughing.  Some  looked  at  the  sunset, 
and  some  at  each  other. 

One  of  the  women,  no  longer  very  young,  but  in 
youthful  dress,  busied  herself  in  collecting  the  scraps  of 
paper  and  bits  of  egg-shell  left  by  a  former  picnic-party ; 
she  hid  them  all  under  a  stone,  announcing  to  one  and 
another  in  a  high  nasal  voice,  "  The  face  of  Nature,  you 
know,  —  defending  the  face  of  Nature." 

The  old  clergyman  watched  her  with  interest,  and 
catching  his  eye,  she  paused  a  moment. 

"  Don't  you  think,  sir,  that  a  sunset  like  this  adds?" 
she  asked,  waving  a  brisk  hand  toward  the  horizon. 

"  It  adds,  Madam,  most  certainly,"  he  replied  gravely. 

She  walked  away  with  her  satisfied,  jaunty  little  step, 
leaving  the  young  man  shaking  with  laughter. 

"  A  genuine  New  England  clam,"  he  whispered. 

The  old  clergyman's  blue  eyes  twinkled  under  the  pent 
house  of  his  shaggy  brows.  "Let  her  alone,"  he  said; 
"  even  clams  have  a  soul  hid  away  somewhere.  You  may 
think  that  remark  shoppy  now,  young  man;  but  when 
you  are  as  old  as  I  am,  you  will  know  it  is  only  truth." 

"  What  can  this  soul  be  ? "  thought  the  Rock,  uneasily. 
"  If  even  clams  have  souls,  why  not  I  ? " 

But  the  days  went  by,  and  though  it  learned  many 
things  from  the  people  who  came  and  went,  and  who 
talked  on  many  subjects,  it  heard  nothing  more  of  souls ; 
so  a  little  gnawing  speck  of  discontent  grew  and  almost 
ate  away  the  great  contentment  which  had  possessed  it 
of  old.  ' 


164  FIFTEEN  COUNTY  ROCK. 

One  evening,  when  the  sunlight  had  no  more  warmth 
of  colour,  and  was  only  a  pale  golden  tint  in  the  air  and  a 
reflection  on  the  clouds  which  lay  softly  pillowed  against 
each  other  in  the  west,  a  great  black  dog  ran  out  of  the 
bushes  and  on  to  the  back  of  the  Rock.  With  a  thrill  that 
struck  to  its  very  centre,  it  recognized  Matt. 

"His  master  will  follow,  and  then,  —  then  perhaps,  I 
shall  know." 

Very  soon  Matt's  master  appeared ;  but  he  came  slowly, 
for  he  was  not  alone.  There  was  a  woman  with  him,  and 
he  was  helping  her  to  climb ;  she  was  exceedingly  beauti 
ful, —  more  beautiful  than  any  one  the  Rock  had  ever 
seen.  Before  they  reached  the  summit,  she  sat  down  on 
a  stone,  breathing  quickly. 

"  It  is  so  steep  and  warm,"  she  said,  smiling.  "You 
have  chosen  a  poor  comrade,  I  fear." 

The  man  took  off  his  straw  hat  and  fanned  her,  with 
a  reply  at  which  she  smiled  again,  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder  with  a  light,  caressing  gesture. 

"  You  will  spoil  me,"  she  answered,  and  turned  her 
shapely  throat  to  catch  the  waves  of  air.  "  Have  we 
much  farther  to  go  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  a  little  way.  1  want  to  show  you  the  very 
spot  where  I  made  the  sketch  for  you.  Are  you  quite 
sure  that  you  are  rested  now  ?  Then  come." 

He  helped  her  to  the  top  of  the  Rock,  and  led  her  to 
the  edge.  "  Look ! "  he  cried  exultingly,  and  pointed 
below. 

She  opened  her  great  serious  eyes  widely,  and  looked 
over  toward  the  west ;  they  were  brown  eyes,  that  re 
minded  Fifteen  County  Rock  of  the  stags  which  had  come 
to  stand  on  its  back  in  the  years  before  it  was  discovered. 


FIFTEEN  COUNTY  ROCK.  165 

The  two  stood  hand  -in  hand,  silent.  The  man  looked 
at  the  sunset  and  then  at  his  companion. 

"  Love,"  she  said,  at  last,  and  her  voice  was  very 
musical,  "  do  you  see  that  charming  pink  and  pearl  cloud  ? 
It  would  exactly  suit  my  colouring  in  a  gown." 

The  black  dog  brushed  against  his  master,  and  he 
stooped  to  caress  him.  As  he  did  so,  he  dropped  the 
hand  he  had  been  holding.  He  took  the  dog's  head  in  his 
hands,  as  he  had  once  before,  and  looked  down  into  the 
dumb  creature's  beautiful  eyes  with  a  curious  smile. 

"  Matt,  I  told  you  on  this  Rock,  last  year,  that  you  had 
no  soul.  Well,  old  boy,  I  take  it  all  back ;  you  may  have 
a  soul,  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary." 

The  woman  turned  her  lovely  head.  "Don't  you 
think,  dear,  that  it  may  be  irreverent  to  talk  of  souls  in 
that  way  ? " 

"Perhaps—  If  you  are  ready,  we  will  go  now,"  he 
answered  gently. 

In  the  quiet  which  followed  their  going,  Fifteen  County 
Rock  laughed  again  and  again  at  itself  and  its  own  folly. 
For  a  year  it  had  been  striving  to  learn  what  a  soul  meant 
from  beings  who  did  not  themselves  know;  but  it  had 
learned  a  better  lesson. 

"  Nothing  shall  ever  again  move  me  from  my  deep 
contentment,"  thought  Fifteen  County  Rock,  humbly. 


A    LEGACY. 


A   LEGACY. 


HALF  on  the  bank  of  the  Swanton  River,  and  half  on 
the  bay  which  leads  Swanton  to  the  sea,  stands  the 
town  of  Ayre.  It  is  a  quaint,  straggling  little  township, 
growing,  apparently,  with  no  prenatal  arrangement  of 
streets  and  avenues.  Where  one  had  been  minded  to  buy 
land  and  build  a  home,  it  would  seem  to  have  been  done 
with  no  interference ;  the  result  was  picturesque  in  the 
extreme,  and  not  very  uncomfortable.  When  a  street 
stretched  out  too  long,  it  was  pierced  by  queer,  narrow 
courts  which  gave  an  air  of  mystery  to  the  most  in 
nocent  spot  on  earth.  That  carriages  must  drive  around 
these  blocks  was  a  small  matter  where  only  four  families 
owned  carriages;  and  besides,  what  need  was  there  for 
haste  ? 

The  population  of  Ayre  consisted  chiefly  of  women  and 
children,  —  the  men  having  gone  forth  to  war  in  larger 
spheres.  Artists  and  oystermen  were  the  only  workmen 
who  came  there,  to  seek  material  for  the  vocations  they 
followed.  Swanton  was  renowned  for  its  oysters,  and  bits 
of  the  drowsy  beauty  of  the  little  town  hung  on  many  a 
studio  wall. 

On  an  exquisite  summer  noon  Anthony  Alderdyce, 
one  of  the  first- named  wandering  brotherhood,  sat  paint- 


170  A  LEGACY. 

ing  in  a  glade  on  the  side  of  one  of  the  cool,  wooded  hills 
which  rise  on  that  bank  of  the  river  known  to  Ayre  as 
"  t'  other  side  Swanton."  In  figure  he  was  rather  thickset, 
of  medium  height,  and  particularly  well  developed  about 
the  chest  and  shoulders.  As  he  bent  over  the  canvas,  his 
face  showed  massive,  almost  to  heaviness ;  but  when  he 
glanced  up,  the  eager  expression  of  a  pair  of  fine,  thought 
ful  eyes  counteracted  the  immobility  of  the  other  features. 
Something  in  face  and  figure  gave  an  impression  of 
belonging  to  a  past  and  more  stately  generation  when  a 
stock  and  laces  and  powdered  hair  were  in  vogue. 

He  was  an  ardent  disciple,  and  painted  with  an  ab 
sorbed  rapidity,  though  so  quietly  that  a  tiny  chipmunk 
ran  with  fearless  security  in  and  out  of  its  home  in  an  old 
log  close  by. 

Suddenly  a  woman's  startled  cry  rang  through  the 
woods. 

The  little  chipmunk  flew  scurrying  to  its  hole,  and 
Alderdyce  started  to  his  feet,  dropping  his  brush  from  his 
hand  ;  it  was  charged  with  dark  paint,  and  in  falling, 
struck  the  picture,  leaving  an  ugly  black  line. 

On  the  crest  of  the  hill  behind  lurked  a  bog,  formed  by 
the  summer  rains  held  in  a  ridge  of  the  ground.  It  was 
from  this  direction  that  the  cry  had  come  ;  and  as  Alder 
dyce  turned,  he  saw  a  young  girl  struggling  helplessly  in 
the  soft  mould,  where  she  had  sunk  to  her  ankles. 

He  ran  forward,  calling  out  to  her,  somewhat  sharply, 
to  stand  quiet ;  and  when  he  reached  the  bog's  edge  she 
was  standing  obediently  motionless,  but  with  so  hopeless 
an  expression  of  despair  on  her  face  that  Alderdyce, 
knowing  her  position  to  be  more  ludicrous  than  dangerous, 
almost  laughed  aloud. 


A  LEGACY.  171 

While  assuring  her  that  he  would  soon  extricate  her, 
he  reviewed  the  situation,  and  saw  that  it  would  be  quicker 
work  to  reach  her  from  the  side  where  he  stood  than  to 
round  the  bog.  He  threw  brushwood  on  the  treacher 
ous  ground,  and  walking  on  it  carefully,  stretched  out 
his  hand. 

"  Can  you  reach  it  ? "  he  asked.  "  Gently !  or  we 
shall  both  plunge  in  and  leave  no  one  to  come  to  the 
rescue." 

The  girl  grasped  his  fingers  tightly,  and  he  cautiously 
worked  his  hand  down  to  her  wrist,  and  then  to  her  arm. 

"  Now,  steady !  "  he  cried ;  and  with  a  sudden  wrench 
drew  her  toward  him,  caught  her  quickly  before  the  frail 
brush  broke  under  the  double  burden,  and  dragged  her  to 
dryland.  "That  was  not  badly  done,  I  flatter  myself," 
he  said,  laughingly,  as  he  released  her. 

But  the  girl  stepped  back,  and  looked  at  him  with 
wide,  frightened  eyes ;  her  cheeks  were  crimson,  and  her 
quick  breathing  told  how  her  heart  was  fluttering. 

Her  figure,  though  immature,  was  full  of  graceful  sug 
gestions,  and  her  face,  in  spite  of  its  frightened  expression, 
was  extremely  beautiful ;  above  its  oval  rose  a  cloud  of 
warm  brown  hair,  which  was  gathered  together  at  the 
back  of  her  daintily  poised  head,  and  there  pierced  by  a 
slender,  venomous-looking  dagger  with  a  jewelled  hilt. 
The  rich,  barbaric  ornament  contrasted  oddly  with  the 
softness  of  her  hazel  eyes  and  the  gentleness  of  her  ex 
pression  ;  but  it  gave  a  most  piquant  touch  to  her  beauty, 
Alderdyce  thought,  as  he  looked  curiously  at  her. 

It  was  plain  that  he  had  thoroughly  startled  her. 

"  I  trust  that  1  have  not  hurt  you,"  he  said  apologeti 
cally  ;  "  there  was  no  other  way." 


172  A  LEGACY. 

In  a  timid  voice,  and  evidently  by  a  great  effort,  she 
spoke  for  the  first  time.  There  was  a  decided  though  not 
unpleasant  accent  in  her  English. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,"  she  began,  then  paused, 
and  blushing  painfully,  faltered  something  which  Alder- 
dyce  could  not  understand. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  asked,  bending  forward  and  speak 
ing  gently,  fearing  each  moment  that  she  would  fly  off  as 
shyly  as  the  little  chipmunk. 

"  My  —  my  shoes —  " 

Alderdyce  looked  down  and  saw  that  she  was  standing 
in  stockinged  feet,  her  shoes  left  in  the  bog.  After  a  search 
he  found  them,  the  ribboned  bow  of  one  and  the  pointed 
toe  of  the  other  sticking  up  pathetically  from  the  black 
mud.  By  the  aid  of  a  long  stick,  he  was  able  to  dig  them 
out,  each  a  shapeless  lump. 

"  Will  you  acknowledge  these  ? "  he  asked,  holding 
them  up. 

But  their  owner  came  forward  with  eagerness,  and 
took  them  daintily  between  finger  and  thumb. 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured ;  "you  have  been  very 
kind  to  me." 

Alderdyce,  fearful  of  startling  her  by  offers  of  further 
assistance,  stood  looking  on  in  wondering  amusement. 

A  bough  of  one  of  the  neighbouring  trees  grew  down 
ward  by  some  freak,  then  out  and  up  again  ;  and  the  girl 
seated  herself  on  this  leafy  swing  as  naturally  as  a  wood- 
nymph  might,  and  began  a  careful  cleaning  of  one  of  her 
shoes  with  a  small  stick. 

Who  was  she,  and  whence  had  she  come  ?  That  she 
was  not  a  native  of  Ay  re,  Alderdyce  felt  assured ;  and 
he  placed  her  as  a  daughter  of  the  South  by  her  warm 
colouring  and  soft  accent. 


A   LEGACY.  173 

Although  apparently  absorbed  in  her  work,  he  knew 
that  his  presence  was  not  forgotten,  as  the  very  sweep  of 
her  eye-lashes  betrayed  consciousness.  He  sat  down  on 
an  opposite  stone  in  silence  as  unbroken  as  her  own,  and 
taking  up  the  second  boot,  began  to  clean  it  in  the  same 
manner. 

That  a  struggle  of  some  kind  was  going  on  in  the 
mind  of  his  companion,  was  presently  evident  by  her 
expression. 

Alderdyce  saw  her  eyelids  flutter  slowly  up,  and  con 
siderately,  and  with  some  wiliness,  dropped  his  own.  At 
last  the  young  girl  laid  down  both  stick  and  shoe,  and 
folding  her  hands,  spoke  ceremoniously,  if  a  little 
gaspingly,  - 

"  My  name  is  Conchita  Maria  de  Santillana,  and  1  live 
with  my  father  in  Ayre ;  but  we  are  of  Spain." 

The  effort  made,  she  relapsed  into  sudden  silence  again. 

Alderdyce,  with  an  equally  courteous  ceremony,  laid 
down  his  stick  and  shoe  also,  and  lifted  his  hat,  bowing 
gravely. 

"  Thank  you.  My  name  is  Anthony  Alderdyce  ;  I  am 
an  artist,  and  I  have  just  come  to  Ayre." 

There  was  nothing  in  his  face  or  voice  to  betray  how 
infinitely  amusing  he  found  the  stately  comedy ;  and  his 
eyes,  which  he  knew  too  well  to  trust,  were  guarded  by 
their  lids. 

But  when  he  looked  up  the  next  moment,  surprise  had 
driven  all  other  expression  from  them. 

"  An  artist,"  Conchita  Santillana  had  cried,  clasping 
her  hands,  —  "  an  artist !  Ah,  how  glad  I  am !  " 

"  Are  you  of  the  brotherhood,  then  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  my  father  is,  and  his  greatest  pleasure  is  to 
be  with  artists." 


174  A  LEGACY. 

"  And  has  he  not  taught  you  ?  " 

"  Only  a  little ;  but  I  can  look  at  a  painting  and  think  : 
Would  my  father  like  it  ?  —  and  if  I  decide  not,  then  it  is 
sure  to  be  poor." 

"  You  can  always  tell  then  ?  " 

"  Always.     Is  that  strange  ? " 

Alderdyce,  conscious  that  he  was  walking  on  ground 
not  much  surer  than  the  neighbouring  bog,  went  on,  feel 
ing  his  way  cautiously. 

"  I  was  painting  when  I  heard  your  cry,"  he  said,  care 
lessly  glancing  toward  his  easel. 

As  Conchita  turned  and  saw  the  easel  standing  on  the 
hillside,  the  last  vestige  of  her  shyness  vanished. 

"Oh,  may  1  see  it  when  I  have  cleaned  my  boot?" 
she  asked.  "  Why,  yours  is  almost  done." 

"  Let  me  finish  yours  too,  then ;  give  it  to  me,  and 
look  at  the  picture  now,  if  you  will." 

Conchita  sprang  up  and  walked  quickly  away  over  the 
soft  grass  of  the  glade.  Alderdyce  smiled  again  as  he 
looked  after  her,  struck  by  the  easy  unconcern  she  showed 
of  her  unconventionally  garbed  feet. 

When  he  joined  her,  she  was  kneeling  in  front  of  his 
picture  and  looked  up  to  greet  him  approvingly. 

"  You  spoke  truly ;  you  are  an  artist." 

The  successful,  petted  young  painter  stooped  suddenly, 
apparently  to  pick  up  his  colour-box. 

"How  my  father  will  like  this!"  the  girl  went  on, 
looking  lovingly  herself  at  the  spirited  sketch.  "You  will 
let  him  see' it,  will  you  not  ?  " 

"You  like  it,  then  ? "  said  Alderdyce. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  looking  at  him  reproachfully ; 
"  1  don't  like  paintings,  1  feel  them." 


A  LEGACY.  175 

* 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  replied  the  artist,  humbly,  and 
turning  away  again  to  collect  his  brushes. 

Artists  and  scientists  complain  that,  in  painting  and 
experiments,  the  novice  will  fasten  on  the  most  unim 
portant  accidents  to  dwell  on ;  and  Alderdyce  observed, 
with  approval,  that  his  new  critic  made  no  reference  to 
the  dark  blot  on  the  canvas  until  the  beauties  of  the  paint 
ing  had  been  absorbed ;  then  she  only  pointed  to  it  and 
looked  up  inquiringly. 

"That  marks  your  entrance,"  Alderdyce  explained; 
"  I  dropped  my  brush  there  when  you  screamed." 

"  Have  I  spoiled  your  picture  ? "  she  asked,  distressed. 

"  No,  no ;  I  can  work  it  in  somehow." 

"  But  how  ?  " 

"  Well,  for  instance,  that  dark  spot  is  not  unlike  your 
gown ;  the  picture  is  only  improved  if  you  will  come  into 
it  in  reality.  Will  you  ?  " 

"  It  seems  but  just." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  a  model  before  ?  Do  you  know 
how  tedious  it  is  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  always  a  model ;  more  than  I  am  myself, 
I  think.  I  am  a  better  Madonna  than  anything  else ;  my 
father  calls  my  Madonna  expression  perfect." 

"  May  I  see  your  Madonna  expression  ? " 

"  Surely,  if  you  wish." 

She  lifted  her  head  and  raised  her  soft  eyes  to  heaven, 
while  an  expression  of  exquisite  meekness  and  resignation 
grew  on  her  features. 

With  dismay,  Alderdyce  found  himself  laughing  aloud 
at  last,  despite  his  fear  that  she  would  disappear  into  the 
wood  from  which  she  came ;  the  metamorphosis,  so  sud 
den  and  unexpected,  proved  too  much  for  his  self-control. 


176  A  LEGACY. 

But  to  his  relief,  the  Madonna  only  became  Conchita 
again,  and  looked  wounded. 

"You  do  not  like  it,  then?" 

"  On  the  contrary,"  returned  Alderdyce,  hastily,  still 
choking  a  little,  "  it  was  beautiful ;  but  how  do  you 
manage  it  ? " 

"  1  learned  it  in  the  mirror,  and  it  took  a  long  time ; 
are  you  sure  that  you  like  it  ? " 

"  No ;  I  don't  like  Madonnas,  —  I  feel  them." 

Conchita,  turning  quickly  toward  him,  looked  up  sus 
piciously  into  his  grave  face.  Although  his  eyes  met 
hers  in  all  outward  innocence,  she  suddenly  detected  the 
quizzical  gleam  lurking  in  them,  and  responded  to  it  by  a 
merry  laugh  which  broke  the  last  barrier. 

"  And  are  you  really  willing  to  sit  for  me  ? "  asked 
Alderdyce  again ;  "  after  seeing  how  you  can  pose,  1  am 
hungry  to  begin." 

"  I  think  1  surely  owe  it  to  you,"  she  replied,  glancing 
at  the  smeared  canvas ;  "  but  do  you  think  my  father 
could  object  ? " 

The  temptation  was  great ;  the  sunbeams  filtering 
through  the  leaves  fell  on  the  girl's  hair,  played  on  the 
soft  oval  of  her  cheek,  and  lit  up  the  jewels  in  the  dagger's 
hilt. '  "  Would  a  sane  parent  permit  her  to  wander  about 
wearing  a  costly  bauble  like  that  ?  "  thought  Alderdyce. 

Conchita  was  awaiting  his  answer ;  and  as  she  turned 
her  head  one  of  the  tiny  rays  of  motey  light  fell  flicker- 
ingly  on  the  hollow  of  her  throat.  Surely  men's  fortunes 
do  hang  on  a  balance  as  fine  as  a  hair  when  a  mote  in  the 
sunbeam  can  turn  the  scale. 

"  Your  father  could  not  object,"  said  Alderdyce,  de 
cidedly.  "Come,  we  must  not  lose  a  moment  of  this 


A   LEGACY.  177 

light;  you  can  stand  on  these  boards  while  your  boots 
dry." 

The  painting  began,  and  with  its  progress  the  artist 
grew  more  and  more  absorbed  in  his  subject.  The  after, 
noon  sun  shot  through  an  opening  in  the  trees  and  lay  in 
a  long  line  on  the  grass  which  floored  the  glade  ;  Alderdyce 
painted  the  graceful  figure  as  if  walking  unconsciously 
forward  in  the  warm  colour  of  this  sun-path,  —  and  as  he 
reproduced  the  lines  of  her  figure  and  the  beauty  of  her 
face  its  charm  took  possession  of  him.  He  soon  found 
that  she  not  only  knew  how  to  take  a  pose,  but  how  to 
hold  it,  and  the  familiarity  of  her  part  as  a  model  seemed 
to  open  her  heart.  Alderdyce,  who  was  painting  against 
time,  knew  all  that  there  was  to  be  known  of  her  every 
day  life  with  her  father,  her  work  and  her  play,  before 
the  lengthening  shadows  warned  him  of  the  coming  dusk. 
The  existence  she  told  of  seemed  to  him  pitifully  cabined 
for  both. 

"  Can  you  not  remember  your  home  in  Spain  ? "  he 
asked,  hoping  to  gain  some  knowledge  of  her  life  there. 

But  Conchita  remembered  very  little.  Her  mother  had 
died  when  she  was  quite  a  little  child,  she  said,  and  her 
father  found  that  he  could  not  live  where  everything,  even 
the  air  she  had  breathed,  reminded  him  of  her ;  so  they 
came  to  America  and  to  Ayre,  —  and  that  was  all. 

"  But  have  you  no  companions,  no  friends  ?" 

"No;  none,  really,  —  except  my  father." 

"  But  your  father,  —  has  he  none  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  has  me ;  and  now  and  then  an  artist  who 
comes  to  Ayre,  as  you  have.'' 

"  And  you  are  contented  ?  You  never  grow  tired  of 
each  other  ?  "  asked  Alderdyce,  smiling. 


178  A  LEGACY. 

"  I  don't  know,  —  ought  we  ?     I  never  thought  of  it." 

"  Then  don't  think  now,"  he  answered,  a  little  con 
science-stricken.  "  There,  the  light  has  gone  at  last,  and 
before  1  could  really  finish.  1  wonder  if  your  shoes  are 
dry  yet." 

"  Where  did  you  put  them  ? " 

"On  a  stone  in  the  sun,  hot  enough  to  have  roasted 
them  long  ago.  You  shall  put  them  on,  and  then  you 
may  see  your  picture." 

But  when  he  brought  her  the  shoes,  it  was  with  an 
expression  of  comical  penitence  and  dismay  on  his  face. 
Conchita  gave  a  little  cry  of  consternation  when  she  saw 
them ;  the  work  of  destruction  so  well  begun  by  the  bog, 
had  been  ably  carried  on  by  the  hot  sun  above  and  the  hot 
stone  below.  Bent,  warped,  twisted,  the  once  dainty  shoes 
were  a  caricature  of  the  foot  whose  shape  they  had  lately 
taken. 

"You  will  only  bruise  your  feet  by  trying  to  force 
those  on  them,"  Alderdyce  expostulated ;  "  pray  don't 
attempt  it." 

But  in  spite  of  his  remonstrance,  she  sat  down  on  the 
grass,  wrestling  vainly  with  the  impossible.  At  last  she 
flung  the  wrecks  from  her  in  petulant  despair. 

"  I  have  not  only  hurt  my  feet  but  my  hands,"  she 
cried,  aggrievedly  looking  at  her  reddened  fingers. 

"  So  much  for  kicking  against  the  pricks,  —  1  warned 
you,  you  know." 

"  But  I  had  to  try.     How  can  I  get  home  ? " 

"  You  can't,  unless  I  take  pity  on  you  and  manage  it." 

"  Then  will  you  take  me  home  ? "  she  asked,  looking 
up  with  child-like  confidence ;  "  but  how  can  you  man 
age  it  ? " 


A  LEGACY.  179 

Alderdyce  laughed  as  he  looked  down  at  the  slight 
figure  on  the  grass  at  his  feet. 

"  If  nothing  else,  I  can  carry  you,  you  tiny  thing !  "  he 
said  lightly. 

The  moment  he  had  spoken,  he  saw  his  mistake.  The 
girl's  open  face  closed  as  a  frosted  flower ;  her  eyes  dark 
ened  and  dilated. 

"  I  can  walk  quite  easily,"  she  said,  rising ;  "  and  I  must 
bid  you  good-evening  now." 

She  turned  from  him  and  walked  down  the  glade  into 
the  wood. 

Alderdyce  hesitated  a  moment,  abusing  his  own  stupid 
ity,  and  then  followed. 

He  was  soon  by  her  side,  as  after  leaving  the  grass  of 
the  glade,  her  progress,  with  only  thin  stockings  as  a  pro 
tection  from  wood-briers  and  stones,  was  necessarily  slow. 

She  did  not  attempt  to  ignore  his  presence  as  he  at  first 
thought  she  meant  to  do,  but  paused,  turning  her  head  with 
a  stately,  inquiring  gesture.  However  awkward  the  posi 
tion  in  which  she  placed  him,  the  artist  in  Alderdyce 
applauded  the  action  of  her  attitude,  and  the  man  in  him 
its  spirit. 

"  You  are  right  to  be  offended,"  he  said,  "  and  1  am 
ready  to  accept  punishment ;  but  pray  let  me  assure  you 
that  I  was  stupid,  not  impertinent.  Can  you  forgive 
me  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  1  can,"  she  answered  deliberately, 
"  though  I  will  try.  Good -evening." 

But  the  prospect  of  a  remote  reconciliation  seemed  not 
satisfactory  to  the  offender,  who  still  walked  by  her  side, 
keeping  pace  with  her  uncertain  steps. 

Conchita  trod  on  a  brier,  struck  her  foot  against  a 


180  A  LEGACY. 

stone,  stepped  on  another  thorny  plant,  and  then  turned 
on  Alderdyce  with  a  flash  in  her  eye,  less  discouraging  to 
him  than  her  former  composure. 

"  Why  do  you  follow  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  it  is  unsafe  for  you  to  go  home  alone ;  but  if 
you  prefer  it,  I  will  not  speak  to  you." 

She  walked  on,  making  no  answer,  and  then  stopped 
again  suddenly.  "  The  picture,  —  where  is  it  ?  " 

"  On  the  easel." 

"  It  will  be  ruined." 

"  Well,  at  least  it  will  not  try  walking  through  the 
woods  with  bare  feet." 

"  It  will  be  ruined,"  she  repeated. 

"  Very  likely,"  answered  Alderdyce,  carelessly,  and  with 
a  strategy  which  he  felt  shamelessly  apparent. 

"  If  you  don't  go  back  for  it,  I  shall,"  cried  Conchita, 
with  indignant  decision.  "  I  saw  both  pigs  and  cows  as  I 
came  up  the  hill ;  I  won't  have  it  left  there  alone." 

"  I  am  more  than  willing  to  go  back  for  it  if  you  will 
promise  to  wait  for  me  here." 

"  Then  I  do  promise." 

Carefully  hiding  his  exultation,  Alderdyce  left  her  sit 
ting  on  the  trunk  of  a  felled  tree,  and  went  back  to  strap 
his  picture  and  general  impedimenta  together.  He  picked 
up  his  favourite  brushes,  and  looked  at  them  with  affec 
tion  as  they  lay  in  his  hand. 

"  You  blessed  little  sables,"  he  said,  "  I  wonder  if  I 
could  really  have  considered  leaving  you  to  pigs  and  cows. 
Well,  not  yet  anyway." 

When  he  rejoined  Conchita,  he  brought  with  him  two 
flat  pieces  of  wood.  "  There  are  your  new  shoes,"  he 
said.  "  Will  you  try  them  on  ?  " 


A  LEGACY.  181 

She  looked  at  him  distrustfully.  "  How  are  they 
shoes  ? " 

"  Well,  to  be  accurate,  they  are  only  sandals ;  but  it  is 
the  best  I  can  do.  Will  you  try  them  on  ?  " 

"  Y-yes." 

"  Then  set  your  foot  on  this  board,  and  let  me  mark 
the  shape." 

He  knelt  before  her  as  disarmingly  business-like  as  a 
shoemaker ;  and  Conchita  hesitatingly  put  out  her  pretty 
foot  with  its  high  instep  and  curved  lines. 

Alderdyce  began  to  draw  a  line  about  it  on  the  board, 
but  stopped  suddenly  with  an  exclamation :  "  What  have 
you  done  to  yourself  ?  Here  is  actual  blood." 

Conchita  looked  down  anxiously  to  see  a  little  red  line 
trickling  from  a  cut  on  the  side  of  her  foot. 

"  It  was  a  sharp  stone,"  she  explained,  changing  colour. 
"  1  did  not  know  it  was  bleeding,  and  I  hate  blood." 

"  Then  don't  look  at  it,"  said  Alderdyce,  "  I  can  bind  it 
up ;  it  is  not  very  bad." 

Nor  was  it;  but  it  served  to  startle  Conchita  into 
submission  to  his  services,  and  she  was  visibly  softened 
by  the  gentleness  and  care  with  which  he  bound  the 
scratch,  using  strips  torn  from  his  own  handkerchief  as 
a  bandage. 

The  surgical  work  finished,  Alderdyce  began  whittling 
out  the  sandals.  He  had  no  better  instrument  than  his 
penknife ;  but  as  he  handled  that  national  tool  with  the 
dexterity  of  the  born  American,  the  sandals  were  not 
without  shape  when  he  finished  them. 

"  But  how  shall  1  keep  them  on  ? "  asked  Conchita, 
who  sat  watching,  deeply  interested. 

"  With  latchets,  of  course ;  here  they  are." 


X 
182  A   LEGACY. 

He  tore  the  remainder  of  his  handkerchief  into  ribbons, 
which  he  bound  into  the  wood,  and  then  held  up  the 
completed  work. 

"  Are  they  not  superb  works  of  art  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  with  a  laugh  of  delight,  but 
Alderdyce  drew  back. 

"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  I  am  a  mercenary  soul,  I  only  work 
for  pay.  What  will  you  give  me  for  them  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  ? " 

"  Well,  I  have  a  corner  on  the  market,  you  see  ;  1  can 
ask  what  I  please." 

"  But  I  must  have  them,  or  I  can't  get  home." 

"  Exactly ;  that 's  what  I  calculated  on  when  I  bought 
in  all  the  sandal  stock.  These  represent  a  deal.  Do 
you  know  what  that  is  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  I  do  want  the  sandals." 

"  Then  you  must  pay  for  them,  and  I  hold  them  high." 
He  dangled  them  before  her  as  he  spoke.  "  These  must 
bring  a  full  and  free  forgiveness,  without  a  reservation. 
Is  it  a  sale  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  holding  out  an  eager  hand. 

But  Alderdyce  flung  the  sandals  into  her  lap,  and  took 
the  outstretched  hand  in  his.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said ; 
"this  ratifies  the  bargain." 

When  Conchita  stood  up  in  the  rude  makeshifts,  she 
was  laughing  merrily  again ;  and  the  journey  home  began 
with  the  old  easy  relations  established  between  them. 

"  1  have  not  seen  my  picture  yet,"  she  said ;  "  but  you 
will  show  it  to  me  later,  will  you  not  ?  " 

"You  shall  see  it,  of  course." 

•'  And  my  father,  too  ?  It  would  give  him  so  much 
pleasure." 


A   LEGACY.  183 

Alderdyce  assented  here  also,  although  he  had  his 
doubts  of  the  latter  clause. 

Clever  as  the  sandals  were,  they  were  not  shoes  nor  so 
easy  to  walk  in.  The  progress  through  the  woods,  in  the 
rapidly  closing  darkness,  was  slow ;  and  slower  still  when 
the  wood-path  struck  into  an  oyster-shell  road  which  led 
to  the  bridge  over  Swanton.  Just  opposite  Ayre,  at  the 
point  where  the  river  emptied  into  the  bay,  a  high  bluff 
rose  from  the  water  and  the  road  ran  about  its  foot. 

Those  who  have  tested  it,  know  that  there  is  no  razor 
sharper  than  some  of  these  thin  cracked  oyster-shells ;  and 
Conchita,  in  her  half -shod  condition,  soon  discovered  this 
fact  also. 

Alderdyce  made  her  lean  on  his  arm,  but  it  was  of 
little  assistance ;  he  could  feel  how  she  winced  and  started 
again  and  again. 

"  I  once  read  of  a  poor  little  mermaid  who  danced  on 
knives,"  Conchita  gasped  at  last ;  "  I  feel  more  sorry  for 
her  now." 

Alderdyce  stopped  short.  "This  is  impossible  for 
you.  Is  there  no  way  around  ? " 

"No,  this  is  the  only  road  not  far,  far  off ;  and  see 
how  dark  it  is  growing,  we  must  hasten  on." 

They  struggled  on  again;  but  after  a  few  steps,  Con 
chita  stumbled  and  fell  forward  with  a  cry  of  pain. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  it  is  dark,"  said  Alderdyce, 
with  decision;  "for  I  should  do  the  same  in  broad 
daylight." 

The  next  moment  he  was  walking  on,  carrying  Con 
chita  in  his  arms.  Although  she  was  too  slight  for  her 
weight  to  be,  a  burden  to  him,  and  his  strength  too  steady 
to  cause  her  uneasiness,  neither  spoke  until  he  set  her 


184  A   LEGACY. 

down  at  the  bridge's  edge ;  then  she  thanked  him  with  an 
unaffected,  simple  gratitude  which  left  Alderdyce  bowing 
in  spirit  before  the  quick  woman's  instinct  which  taught 
even  this  unsophisticated  child  to  distinguish  between  his 
first  attempt  to  carry  her  and  his  last. 

Mr.  Santillana  was  standing  at  the  gate  of  his  garden, 
anxiously  peering  up  and  down  the  street  through  the 
darkness,  when  the  figure  for  which  he  was  watching 
came  in  sight.  He  walked  quickly  forward  with  an 
exclamation  of  relief,  as  Conchita's  voice  called  to  him, 
announcing  her  return. 

"  My  little  one,  where  have  you  been  ?  Have  you  met 
with  an  accident  ?  " 

"  The  accident  is  all  over  now,"  she  answered  ;  "  I  am 
quite  safe,  Padre." 

He  caught  her  to  him.    "  You  are  not  hurt  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  laughingly  disengaging  herself ; 
"but  I  have  brought  some  one  home  with  me  whom  you 
must  thank  for  that.  This  is  my  father,  Mr.  Alderdyce." 

Mr.  Santillana  turned  to  the  stranger  courteously  ;  his 
English  had  less  accent  than  his  daughter's,  but  it  was  not 
so  ready. 

"Pardon  me;  I  am  an  anxious  father  and  mother  in 
one.  Will  you  come  into  the  house,  and  let  me  thank 
you  there  ? " 

The  house  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  garden,  and  was  a 
square,  stone  structure  with  small,  two-story  wings  set  on 
either  side,  far  enough  away  to  make  covered  corridors 
necessary  to  join  them  to  the  main  building. 

The  room  into  which  Alderdyce  was  shown  was  a 
crescent-shaped  hall  with  a  number  of  doors  ppening  into 
it ;  it  was  evidently  used  as  a  sitting-room,  for  it  held  a 


A   LEGACY.  185 

large,  scholarly-looking  writing-desk,  and  a  work-table 
covered  with  all  kinds  of  womanly  belongings.  Books 
and  papers  were  scattered  over  tables  and  chairs  in  a  con 
fusion  which  just  escaped  untidiness.  A  hanging-lamp 
showed  that  the  walls  were  covered  with  oil-paintings, 
simply  framed,  but  selected  with  exquisite  care. 

"  Look,  Padre,"  cried  Conchita,  stepping  into  the 
circle  of  falling  light,  and  holding  back  her  dress ;  "  look 
at  my  new  shoes!  Mr.  Alderdyce  made  them  for  me. 
When  I  fell  into  the  bog  and  lost  mine,  he  pulled  me 
out  and  brought  me  home." 

"  Then  I  have  every  reason  to  be  grateful,"  said  Mr. 
Santillana.  "  I  was  most  anxious  about  my  little  one ;  she 
is  growing  into  a  wild  fledgling,  I  fear.  Where  had  you 
wandered,  Conchita  ? " 

Alderdyce  could  see  that  in  her  father's  eyes  she  was 
still  a  mere  baby,  and  also  that  when  talking  to  him  she 
unconsciously  became  more  infantile. 

"  I  was  '  t'  other  side  Swanton,'  "  she  answered,  laugh 
ing  ;  "  now  don't  scold  me,  dearest." 

Her  father  looked  at  her  lovingly,  passing  his  hand 
lightly  over  her  hair.  "  On  '  t'  other  side  Swanton,'  alone, 
my  child !  If  I  could  scold,  it  would  be  better  for  you, 
little  one.  But  so  far  alone  !  That  must  not  happen  again, 
Conchita." 

"  You  never  told  me  not  to  go  there." 

"  No ;  nor  did  I  ever  tell  you  not  to  cross  Swanton  in  a 
tub,  little  sophist." 

"  Oh,  nothing  ever  happens  to  me,"  the  girl  answered, 
lightly ;  "  some  one  always  comes.  This  time  it  was 
Mr.  Alderdyce,"  she  added,  smiling  at  the  artist  as  she 
spoke. 


186  A   LEGACY. 

"  Pardon  me,  but  is  it  the  artist,  Anthony  Alderdyce  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Santillana,  eagerly  turning. 

"  But  yes,  Padre  ;  how  did  yoli  know  ?  " 

"  I  know  him  very  well  indeed,"  he  answered,  holding 
out  his  hand  cordially.  "  1  can  claim  an  old  acquaintance 
in  your  first  salon  picture,  Mr.  Alderdyce  ;  I  longed  for  its 
possession." 

The  artist,  who  had  little  expected  quite  what  he  found 
in  this  retreat,  took  the  extended  hand  with  some  em 
barrassment  and  a  sense  of  guilt.  The  picture  of  Conchita 
in  his  case  weighed  on  his  conscience,  and  his  colour  rose 
when  the  girl  herself  spoke  of  it. 

"  1  had  almost  forgotten,  —  Mr.  Alderdyce  has  made  a 
sketch  of  me." 

"  Of  you  ?    Where  was  it  painted  ?  " 

"  In  the  wood  ;  and  I  have  not  seen  it  myself  yet ; 
but  you  shall  see  it  first,  Padre.  I  know  you  long  to." 

"  1  am  certainly  most  anxious  to  see  it,"  replied  Mr. 
Santillana. 

Though  the  words  and  manner  carried  no  discourtesy, 
that  they  meant,  "  and  1  intend  to,"  was  evident  to  Alder 
dyce.  He  hesitated,  a  little  nettled,  and  reluctant  to  place 
an  unfinished  work  before  eyes  which,  while  set  in  a 
kindly  face,  he  yet  recognized  as  keen  and  critical. 

"  The  painting  is  incomplete,"  he  began. 

"  Then  you  can  cover  all  except  the  figure,"  said  Mr. 
Santillana,  pleasantly;  "you  must  acknowledge  that  my 
curiosity  to  see  that  is  pardonable." 

Alderdyce  drew  out  the  canvas. 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Santillana,  as  he  looked  at  it,  — 
"genuine  foliage,  genuine  sunshine,  genuine  shadow." 

He  hung  over  the  painting,  enraptured  ;  and  with  a  not 


A  LEGACY.  187 

unnatural  triumph,  Alderdyce  saw  that  the  artist-nature 
was  roused  to  a  point  which  swept  away  fatherly  scruples. 
The  enthusiast  looked  up  with  shining  eyes. 

"  It  takes  a  brush  with  a  long  handle  to  reach  Truth  in 
the  bottom  of  her  well,"  he  said ;  "  but  you  have  it,  - 
ah,  but  you  have  it,  Mr.  Alderdyce." 

Conchita  peeped  over  her  father's  shoulder,  then  whis 
pered  a  word  in  his  ear  and  stole  from  the  room. 

When  she  returned,  Mr.  Santillana  was  talking  earnestly 
with  the  young  artist ;  and  as  her  entrance  interrupted 
them,  he  turned  to  look  at  her  in  mock  consternation. 

Her  dark  gown  was  changed  for  a  soft  yellow-tinted 
muslin  which  gained  colour  from  the  bright  yellow  of 
the  roses  which  were  stuck  in  her  bosom  and  in  her  dark 
hair. 

"  Why,  this  means  dinner,  does  it  not  ?  and  your 
message  not  yet  delivered,  Conchita.  She  is  a  severe 
head  of  the  house,  Mr.  Alderdyce ;  and  you  will  do  me  a 
kindness  and  save  me  a  scolding,  if  you  will  accept  this 
tardy  invitation  and  dine  with  us." 

Alderdyce  looked  down  at  his  rough  suit.  "  But  I  am 
no  dinner  guest,"  he  said. 

"If  that  be  all,  I  can  keep  you  in  countenance;  for  I 
have  been  hunting  my  lost  bit  of  silver  in  garret  and 
cellar,"  returned  Mr.  Santillana,  glancing  in  laughing  re 
proach  at  his  daughter.  "  1  show  plenty  of  whitewash 
and  cobwebs  in  evidence,  I  am  sure." 

Conchita  stood  by,  smiling  at  him  over  her  yellow 
roses ;  and  Alderdyce,  trusting  that  he  showed  a  sufficiently 
decent  hesitation,  accepted. 

Throughout  the  dinner  the  two  men  continued  their 
interrupted  discussion.  Conchita  sat  almost  silent,  but 


188  A   LEGACY. 

evidently  happy  in  her  father's  enjoyment  of  this  contact 
with  a  thoughtful  mind  in  touch  with  the  new  methods 
and  advanced  work  in  the  world  from  which  he  was  now 
separated. 

"Why  is  he  buried  alive  in  this  slumbering  com 
munity  ? "  Alderdyce  thought. 

"  My  little  one  and  I  live  like  hermits  here,"  Mr. 
Santillana  said,  sighing  unconsciously  as  they  rose  from 
the  table ;  "but  perhaps  we  gain  in  one  way  more  than 
we  lose  in  another.  Get  your  zither,  Conchita,  and  let  us 
have  some  music  on  the  veranda." 

Conchita  obeyed,  and  with  her  zither  in  her  lap,  sat 
on  the  broad  veranda  steps  in  the  moonlight. 

"  1  have  only  read  of  a  zither  as  yet,"  Alderdyce  said, 
looking  at  the  instrument  with  interest. 

"  Then  you  have  still  to  hear  the  quaintest,  most  fairy- 
like  music  in  the  world,"  answered  Mr.  Santillana.  "  Play, 
Conchita." 

Conchita  softly  touched  the  wires,  and  the  tripping, 
tinkling  sounds,  crossing  and  interrupting  one  another 
harmoniously,  dropped  like  flowing  water  from  her 
fingers. 

Alderdyce  sat  on  the  step  below  her,  letting  himself 
drift  with  the  witchery  of  the  sensuous  lilt  and  swing  of 
the  strange  music,  and  the  glamour  it  threw  over  the 
player,  who  sat  with  bent  head  and  rapt  listening  expres 
sion,  like  that  of  a  praising  angel,  he  thought.  He  roused 
himself  when  the  sounds  died  away,  hushed  by  the  girl's 
hand  laid  with  light  silencing  touch  on  the  still  vibrating 
strings,  and  urged  her  warmly  to  play  again ;  but  Con 
chita  laid  the  zither  aside,  shaking  her  head. 

"  Yes,  play  for  us  once  more,  Conchita  mia,"  said  her 


A   LEGACY.  189 

father;  and  again  Alderdyce  noticed  that  his  manner  was 
as  if  coaxing  a  refractory  child. 

"  I  have  listened  during  a  whole  dinner,"  she  said, 
reproachfully,  "  and  I  have  played  too,  and  now  I  want 
to  talk ;  it  makes  my  throat  sore  to  be  quiet  so  long." 

"  Then  talk,  by  all  means,"  said  Mr.  Santillana,  laugh 
ing ;  "  no  one  knew  that  you  were  suffering.  What  do 
you  want  to  talk  about  ?  Suppose  you  tell  me  how  you 
came  to  be  '  t'  other  side  Swanton '  to-day." 

"  I  went  there  to  fish ;  I  thought  1  would  catch  some 
thing  to  surprise  you  for  your  dinner,  Padre,  and  I  lost 
my  hook  and  line  and  caught  nothing  at  all,  —  oh,  yes,  I 
did  too,"  she  added,  suddenly,  looking  at  Alderdyce  with 
dancing  eyes. 

"  Gently,  gently,  Conchita,"  cried  Mr.  Santillana.  "  It 
is  very  good  of  you  not  to  be  offended,"  he  went  on, 
seeing  Alderdyce  laughing.  "  Child,  you  belong  in  your 
nursery  still." 

"  I  am  only  flattered,"  said  Alderdyce.  "  If  I  was 
caught  as  a  dinner  dish,  and  if,  in  turn,  I  caught  a  model, 
it  was  but  a  fair  exchange." 

"  Shall  you  finish  my  picture,  then  ?  "  Conchita  asked, 
as  he  had  hoped  she  would. 

The  artist  looked  at  Mr.  Santillana  questioningly.  "  If 
your  father  will  allow  me,"  he  answered,  and  then  re 
ceived,  albeit  a  little  late,  a  cordial  permission. 

"  But,  Padre,  I  have  not  yet  told  you  all  about  my 
falling  into  the  bog,"  Conchita  continued,  "  and  it  was 
very  interesting;  you  must  listen,  and,  Mr.  Alderdyce, 
you  shall  tell  all  that  I  do  not  remember." 

Yet,  in  spite  of  these  precautions  against  forgetful  ness, 
when  Alderdyce  left  the  Santillana  mansion  late  in  the 


A  LEGACY. 

evening,  there  was  something  lingering  in  his  memory 
which  he  did  not  remind  her  to  mention ;  and  his  last 
waking  thought  was :  "  She  told  of  everything  like  an 
innocent  angel,  except  that  oyster-shell  road." 

At  the  end  of  Mr.  Santillana's  garden  was  a  vine- 
covered  summer-house  which  served  him  as  a  summer 
studio;  and  there  Alderdyce  was  soon  a  familiar  figure. 
He  had  finished  the  picture  of  the  glade ;  but  Conch  ita  had 
consented  to  sit  for  him  again  as  model  for  a  Pandora, 
and  her  father  had  willingly  agreed. 

"  But  your  sketch  is  too  elaborate,  Alderdyce,"  he  said, 
looking  at  the  Pandora  the  artist  was  blocking  out:  "  you 
will  leave  Ayre  long  before  that  is  finished." 

"  No ;  when  I  came  here,  1  was  prepared  to  stay  so 
long  as  material  offered,"  Alderdyce  answered.  "  I  still 
have  out-door  work  before  me." 

"  Then  may  Ayre's  woods  and  waters  prove  inex 
haustible,"  said  Mr.  Santillana,  satisfied ;  and  Alderdyce 
laughingly  thanked  him,  his  conscience  clear  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  just  telegraphed  for  extra  luggage. 
By  some  tortuous  reasoning  to  which,  however  honest  the 
heart,  the  human  brain  seems  never  unequal,  he  contrived 
to  reconcile  his  acts  and  words  to  his  own  satisfaction. 

The  Pandora  progressed  but  slowly.  Painting  with 
lazy,  happy  touches,  Alderdyce  lingered  over  it  consciously, 
—  conscious  also  of  a  growing  content,  which  he  did  not 
endanger  by  self-examination. 

Thus  the  days  came  and  went.  Almost  a  month  drifted 
away ;  and  then  suddenly,  without  any  warning,  the  peace 
of  the  sittings  in  the  old  summer-house  studio  was  gone. 

Perhaps  it  was  but  a  fleeting  expression,  perhaps  a 


A  LEGACY.  191 

lingering  look  or  unconscious  word ;  but  the  woman  in 
Conchita  awakened,  calling  out  startled  warnings  as  a 
watchman  on  the  walls,  and  all  the  innocent,  childish 
freedom  of  manner  vanished,  flying  in  behind  fortifica 
tions  which  the  new-born  woman  knew  how  to  erect 
instinctively. 

"  This  is  simply  imposing  on  you,"  said  Alderdyce,  at 
last,  laying  aside  his  brushes  in  the  midst  of  a  thoroughly 
unsatisfactory  sitting.  "  You  have  not  really  been  able  to 
pose  this  week  ;  you  are  letting  me  tire  you  out." 

Conchita  flushed  and  raised  her  head,  resuming  the 
pose  which  she  had  lost.  "  No,  I  am  not  at  all  tired,"  she 
said  hastily. 

The  Pandora  was  represented  standing  with  her  empty 
open  box  in  her  hand,  gazing  up  into  space  with  wondering, 
wide-open  eyes. 

"I  am  not  going  to  take  the  colour  out  of  your  face  to 
put  on  my  canvas,''  Alderdyce  asserted. 

"  But  1  have  told  you  that  I  was  not  tired ;  pray  go  on,'' 
she  responded  impatiently. 

Alderdyce  returned  to  his  work,  but  in  a  little  while  laid 
down  his  brushes,  smiling  and  shaking  his  head. 

"Is  it  like  you  to  hang  your  head  ?  If  you  are  not 
tired,  you  are  out  of  tune  in  some  way.  We  will  put  off 
work  for  to-day." 

"  I  am  not  tired,  and  I  am  perfectly  well.  Was  I  wrong 
again  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid  you  were." 

"  Then  it  is  because  I  am  stupid  and  have  lost  the  idea." 

"  No,  no ;  wait  until  to-morrow  and  all  will  be  right," 
answered  Alderdyce,  patiently. 

"  But  waiting  only  frets  me ;  do  go  on." 


i92  A   LEGACY. 

Alderdyce,  looking  troubled,  obeyed  silently. 

"  Let  me  show  you  what  it  is  I  want,"  he  said  presently, 
rising  and  walking  toward  her  as  he  spoke.  "  This  is  it." 
He  touched  either  side  of  her  head  lightly,  raising  it,  and 
as  he  did  so  discovered  that  her  eyes  were  still  hidden  from 
him  by  tears. 

Conchita  broke  from  him,  but  not  before  the  tears  had 
fallen  on  her  cheeks,  leaving  her  confused  hazel  eyes  bared 
to  his ;  and  in  that  moment,  with  a  searching,  almost  pain 
fully  swift  consciousness,  Alderdyce  knew  them  as  the  eyes 
of  the  woman  he  loved,  and  knew  that  she  loved  him. 

He  was  still  standing  in  the  first  bewilderment  of  his 
discovery  when  Mr.  Santillana  entered  the  summer-house. 

"  What !  crying,  my  little  one  !  What  is  it,  Alderdyce  ? 
Have  we  let  her  sit  too  long  ?  " 

"That  and  the  hot  day  together,  1  think,"  answered 
Alderdyce,  rousing. 

Mr.  Santillana  took  his  child  in  his  arms,  soothing  and 
caressing  her. 

"But  it  is  nothing;  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  myself," 
Conchita  cried,  half  laughing,  as  her  father  wiped  away 
her  tears.  "  I  must  cry  sometimes  ;  and  if  1  have  nothing 
to  cry  for,  I  must  cry  for  nothing." 

Mr.  Santillana  looked  at  her  anxiously.  "  We  all  have 
our  moods  at  times,"  he  said.  "  No  more  painting  to-day, 
though.  What  do  you  say  to  eating  our  supper  in  the 
wood  this  evening  ?  You  might  take  us  to  your  glade 
'  t'  other  side  S wanton,'  Alderdyce." 

Conchita  slipped  from  her  father's  arm,  and  turned 
away.  "  I  don't  know,"  she  objected ;  "  picnics  are  so 
much  spiders  and  worms." 

Mr.  Santillana  again  looked  at  her  anxiously.    "  You 


A   LEGACY.  193 

are  over-tired,"  he  said  reassuringly.  "  If  you  don't  like 
spiders  and  worms,  you  must  learn  to ;  it 's  a  healthy  taste. 
Yes,  we  shall  go  this  afternoon." 

But  that  afternoon  the  rain  clouds  blew  in  from  the 
north,  south,  east,  and  west,  and  by  alternately  breaking, 
banking,  and  opening,  kept  the  land  wet  for  a  week. 

The  picnic  was  postponed  daily,  but  Conchita  would 
not  permit  the  painting  to  be  laid  aside ;  she  insisted  that 
she  was  quite  well,  that  the  work  would  never  be  finished 
at  that  rate,  and  repeatedly  asked  Alderdyce  to  set  a  date 
for  its  completion. 

The  young  artist,  who  was  unusually  silent,  would 
promise  nothing  definite;  and  Conchita  clung  too  tena 
ciously  to  her  father's  side  to  make  any  explanation 
possible,  even  had  he  deemed  it  advisable. 

For  some  days  the  progress  on  the  Pandora  was  con 
fined  to  the  drapery,  as  Conchita  sat  always  with  lowered 
eyes  and  drooping  head,  and  Alderdyce  would  ask  for  no 
change;  but  at  last,  by  deliberately  outmanoeuvring,  he 
gained  a  half-hour  alone  with  his  model,  and  took  advan 
tage  of  it  to  absorb  himself  in  his  colours,  speaking  to  her 
only  as  a  secondary  consideration.  Through  this  consis 
tent  behaviour,  and  a  guarded  care  in  words  and  looks  he 
finally  had  the  reward  of  seeing  the  painful  consciousness 
under  his  gaze  fade  away,  and  the  old  confidence  return. 

"  The  first  dry  day  shall  be  for  the  picnic,"  said  Mr. 
Santillana  each  morning ;  and  "  Until  the  picnic,"  thought 
Alderdyce  each  day,  "  and  not  until  then,  however  great 
the  temptation." 

At  last  the  clouds  scattered,  the  sun  shone  with  re 
doubled  power,  and  there  came  a  day  seemingly  created 
for  the  woods. 

13 


194  A   LEGACY. 

"  So  this  is  the  historic  glade,  Alderdyce,"  said  Mr. 
Santillana,  looking  about  him. 

The  picnic  "  t'  other  side  Swanton  "  was  in  full  swing. 
A  gypsy  kettle  hung  bubbling  and  boiling  over  a  glowing 
fire ;  the  supper,  spread  out  on  fresh -gathered  leaves  and 
little  squares  of  white  paper,  stood  invitingly  near,  ready 
to  be  eaten  when  the  tea  had  drawn. 

"  We  shall  have  no  clearing  away  of  plates,"  Conchita 
had  decided  ;  "  we  shall  eat  from  nothing  which  cannot  be 
burned  up  afterwards." 

She  set  the  grassy  table  herself  and  helped  Alderdyce 
gather  brands  for  the  burning,  dragging  in  great  armfuls 
of  brushwood  to  her  father,  who  had  constituted  himself 
stoker.  The  veriest  child  could  have  been  no  more  de 
lighted  with  the  potatoes  which  Alderdyce  roasted  in  the 
ashes  and  the  eggs  which  he  wrapped  in  wet  paper  and 
baked  under  the  hot  logs. 

"  She  is  as  excited  as  if  at  a  ball,"  he  thought,  watching 
her  delightedly. 

But  the  preparations  were  so  elaborate,  and  the  supper 
eaten  so  lingeringly,  that  Mr.  Santillana  began  looking 
restlessly  at  his  watch  before  the  meal  was  over. 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  reach  town  before  the  evening 
mail  goes  out,  Alderdyce  ?  "  he  asked. 

Alderdyce  looked  at  the  hour  reluctantly.  "Not  unless 
we  leave  this  moment,"  he  answered,  but  not  offering  to 
move.  "  Have  you  letters  to  send  ? " 

"  Yes ;  some  which  must  go  by  to-night." 

"  No,  no,  Padre,"  cried  Conchita ;  "  let  them  lie  until 
to-morrow.  Look  at  the  long,  queer  shadows,  and  the 
firelight  just  beginning  to  show  against  them,  —  this  is  the 
best  hour." 


A  LEGACY.  195 

"  Then  stay  and  enjoy  it,"  said  Mr.  Santillana,  rising. 
"  But  don't  let  it  be  long,  Alderdyce.  I  must  go,  and  by 
short  cuts.  Conchita,  you  may  stay  a  little  longer,  if  Mr- 
Alderdyce  will  bring  you  home." 

"  With  pleasure,"  the  artist  answered  quietly. 

He  watched  Conchita  closely,  expecting  her  hasty 
retreat ;  but  she  only  sat  contentedly  by  the  fire,  poking 
its  red  embers  with  a  stick  while  stating  that  it  needed 
another  armful  of  bark. 

Alderdyce  accompanied  Mr.  Santillana  to  the  edge  of 
the  glade,  and  returned  with  a  load  of  bark  which  made 
the  flames  shoot  high  in  the  air. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said;  "  I  have  found  something 
to  show  you." 

"  Something  to  show  me,  —  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Come  and  see,"  he  answered  mysteriously. 

He  led  the  way  to  the  spot  where  the  wooden  sandals 
had  been  carved  out  a  month  before. 

"Do  those  look  familiar?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the 
ground. 

Conchita  looked  down  to  see  what  had  once  been  her 
shoes,  lying  where  she  had  flung  them  the  day  they  en 
countered  the  bog  to  their  sore  defeat.  The  grass  had 
grown  in  about  them,  and  the  rain  had  beaten  them 
into  the  earth ;  but  Alderdyce  picked  them  up  as  carefully 
as  though  they  still  had  value. 

"  These  are  the  mutual  acquaintances  who  introduced 
us,"  he  said ;  "  if  they  were  only  a  trifle  smaller  I  would 
wear  them  on  my  watch-chain  as  a  charm;  as  it  is,  they 
shall  at  least  have  Christian  burial." 

With  laughing  respect  he  carried  the  shoes  to  the  bog, 
and  thrust  them  deep  down  in  the  soft  earth,  saying  to 
Conchita  as  he  did  so.  — 


196  A   LEGACY. 

"  Bid  them  farewell ;  they  have  seen  the  first  chapter, 
but  no  one  save  ourselves  shall  see  the  second." 

She  smiled  and  flushed,  but  answered  nothing.  The 
firelight  was  flickering  and  leaping  up  in  little  tongues  of 
flame  as  they  walked  back  toward  it. 

"  We  must  scatter  it  carefully  before  we  go, —  it  might 
do  damage,"  Alderdyce  said  ;  "  but  not  quite  yet." 

They  stood  looking  into  the  red  embers,  speaking  on 
any  subject  except  the  one  which  was  the  central  thought 
in  the  heart  of  each. 

As  Conchita  bent  over  the  fire,  the  jewelled  dagger 
which  she  always  wore,  and  which  Alderdyce  had  grown 
to  regard  as  almost  a  part  of  her,  dropped  at  her  feet.  He 
picked  it  up,  and  replacing  it  in  her  hair,  half  expected  her 
quick  withdrawal ;  but  again,  though  her  colour  rose,  she 
said  nothing ;  she  was  making  no  effort  now  to  ignore  or 
repulse.  In  the  mutual  understanding  which  seemed 
suddenly  established  between  them,  all  trace  of  startled 
womanhood  or  childish  petulance  vanished.  Alderdyce 
dreaded  breaking  the  charm. 

At  last  Conchita  spoke  softly,  as  if  afraid  of  jarring  the 
stillness  which  had  fallen  upon  them.  "  We  must  go 
home  now,  must  we  not  ?  The  Padre  will  be  anxious 
again." 

Alderdyce  assented,  opening  the  blazing  logs,  thrusting 
them  apart,  and  scattering  the  embers. 

"  The  woods  and  the  lights  and  the  shadows  are  all  just 
as  they  were  the  day  we  first  walked  home  together,"  he 
said,  looking  back  as  they  left  the  place;  "we  might 
almost  think  it  was  that  first  day,  except  for  ourselves." 

They  followed  the  winding  path  down  the  wooded  hill, 
with  only  a  short,  unspoken  word  separating  them,  —  a 


A   LEGACY.  197 

word  too  near  the  lips,  too  often  half  uttered,  not  to  be  a 
conscious  presence. 

The  oyster-shell  road  stretched  out  at  the  foot  of  the 
bluff,  a  curving  white  line  in  the  dusk  as  they  looked 
down  on  it  from  above. 

"There  is  the  shell  road  now,"  Alderdyce  said;  "  we 
are  nearly  home." 

The  slight,  crushing  sound  of  the  shells  beneath  their 
feet  startled  a  blackbird,  which  flew  up  from  the  road 
before  them  with  a  shrill  cry  and  flapping  of  wings. 

Conchita  started  back,  and  then  laughed  tremulously. 
"  It  was  so  sudden,"  she  explained,  as  Alderdyce  paused 
also  and  stood  by  her,  holding  her  hand  in  his. 

"  It  was  only  a  blackbird ;  but  see,  here  are  the  same 
sharp  oyster -shells ;  do  you  remember  how  I  carried  you 
over  them  in  my  arms  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered  breathlessly. 

She  turned  from  him,  and  would  have  walked  on,  but 
he  gently  prevented  her.  He  could  count  the  pulsations 
of  her  heart  in  her  quick  breaths. 

"  Surely  you  can  trust  me  now,"  he  said.  "  Dear,  I 
have  something  to  tell  you ;  will  you  listen  ?  " 

Close  by  the  blackbird  dropped  down  in  the  road  again, 
where  its  mate  joined  it.  The  soft  winnowing  of  their 
wings  was  in  the  air,  and  the  presence  of  new  vows  and 
new  words  set  to  the  old  faltering,  whispering  melody 
which  is  always  in  tune. 

"What  has  happened?"  thought  Alderdyce,  rousing 
the  next  morning  with  a  start.  He  had  known,  even  in 
his  fortunate  life,  what  it  meant  to  wake  suddenly  from 
sleep  with  the  recollection  of  a  heavy  heart.  "  Joy  and 


198  A   LEGACY. 

grief  have  some  kindred  touch,  then,"  he  decided,  smiling 
as  he  remembered  the  events  of  the  evening  before. 

Conchita  had  insisted  on  his  leaving  her  at  the  door  of 
her  home,  as  she  claimed  the  right  to  speak  to  her  father 
first.  "Your  eyes  talk,"  she  said;  "they  would  tell  all 
before  1  could." 

A  little  pity  for  the  lonely  man  whose  ewe  lamb  he  was 
stealing  mingled  with  Alderdyce's  thoughts,  as  he  walked 
out  to  the  Santillana  mansion  to  assert  his  claim.  He  won 
dered  how  Conchita  had  fared  in  telling  her  news,  —  if  her 
father  had  helped  her  shyness,  and  what  each  had  said. 

"  He  had  no  surprise,  at  least,"  he  thought  with  satis 
faction  ;  "all  has  gone  on  in  his  sight,  —  almost  all, 
that  is." 

There  was  no  one  sitting  in  the  crescent -shaped  hall 
when  Alderdyce  entered  it,  though  usually  the  father  and 
daughter  were  both  there  at  that  hour.  He  shortly  re 
ceived  a  message  from  Mr.  Santillana,  however,  asking  his 
presence  in  his  private  study. 

"  To  be  treated  to  a  little  Spanish  formality  and  gran- 
deeism,"  the  young  man  decided  with  some  amusement. 

Mr.  Santillana's  study  was  in  the  left  wing  of  the 
building,  and  his  daughter's  apartments  occupied  the  right. 
Alderdyce  remembered  how  on  first  taking  him  over  the 
queer  old  house,  Mr.  Santillana  had  showed  him  the  rooms 
in  the  right  wing,  pointing  out  one  as  "my  child's  nur 
sery."  "  Will  he  persist  in  calling  her  a  baby  to-day  ?  " 
the  artist  wondered;  and  he  was  still  smiling  at  the 
thought  when  he  entered  the  study. 

Mr.  Santillana  was  seated  behind  his  table,  and  did  not 
come  forward  to  greet  his  guest,  although  he  rose  with  his 
usual  careful  courtesy. 


A   LEGACY.  199 

"  I  can  scarcely  decide  which  of  us  has  been  to  blame, 
Mr.  Alderdyce,  —  you  for  changing  my  child  into  a 
woman,  or  I  for  not  recognizing  the  fact,''  he  began,  as 
though  continuing  an  unfinished  conversation,  and  speak 
ing  in  a  strained,  unnatural  manner. 

Alderdyce,  looking  at  him  in  surprise,  saw  that  his  face 
seemed  old  and  as  gray  as  his  hair,  while  each  line  in  it 
was  accentuated. 

"  Why  should  either  be  blamed  ? "  he  asked,  with  a 
sudden  chill  and  depression. 

"  You  will  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  I  was 
wholly  surprised  by  what  1  learned  last  night,"  Mr.  San- 
tillana  went  on. 

"  But  there  was  no  intent  to  deceive  you,"  Alderdyce 
interrupted  hastily.  "You  have  surely  known  what  kept 
me  here." 

il  No;  on  that  point  1  was  wholly  deceived." 

The  colour  rose  hotly  in  the  young  artist's  face.  "  I 
repeat  that  there  was  no  intent  to  deceive  you ;  and  if 
Conchita  spoke  to  you  when  she  returned  last  night,  as  I 
suppose  she  did,  you  knew  all  within  an  hour  after  it  was 
settled." 

"  My  daughter  did  tell  me  last  night  of  the  matter 
under  discussion." 

Alderdyce  coloured  again.  "  I  should,  perhaps,  have 
spoken  to  you  first  under  all  the  circumstances,"  he  said 
frankly;  "but  I  interpreted  your  consent  to  our  daily 
intercourse  as  approval." 

Mr.  Santillana  winced,  and  his  face  grew  a  shade 
whiter.  "  I  have  been  culpably  careless  ;  my  only  excuse 
is  my  blindness,  which  is  an  excuse  no  longer.  My  pre 
cautions  come  late ;  but  I  must  ask  you  when  it  is  your 


200  A   LEGACY. 

intention  to  leave  Ayre,  as  until  then  my  daughter  is  of 
necessity  house-bound  ? " 

In  spite  of  what  had  already  passed,  Alderdyce  stood 
incredulous  of  his  own  hearing.  "  Is  it  possible  that  I 
comprehend  you?  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  refuse 
your  consent,  now?"  he  asked. 

"  I  absolutely  refuse  it." 

"  On  what  ground  ? " 

"  It  is  my  unalterable  decision." 

The  artist  looked  for  a  moment  of  silent  amazement 
into  the  inflexible  face  before  him. 

"  You  will  let  me  ask  a  few  questions,  Mr.  Santillana?" 
he  said  quietly ;  adding,  as  he  received  no  immediate 
answer,  "  I  think  I  may  claim  in  justice  so  much  as 
that." 

Mr.  Santillana  sat  down  behind  his  table  again,  with  a 
gesture  of  assent.  There  was  a  weariness  in  his  attitude, 
Alderdyce  thought,  as  he  took  his  seat  by  the  opposite 
side. 

Mr.  Santillana  spoke  first.  "  It  is  but  fair  to  warn  you 
that  nothing  to  be  said  or  left  unsaid  can  make  a  change." 

"  Have  you  come  to  any  knowledge  of  me  or  my  life 
which  obliges  this  decision  ?  " 

"  None." 

"  I  think  1  may  safely  say  that  I  could  disprove  any 
calumnies." 

"  Of  that  I  am  equally  sure." 

"  Then  am  I  not  reasonable  in  considering  that  I  have 
the  right  to  know  your  grounds  of  objection  ?  " 

"  Most  reasonable;  and  most  unreasonably  I  refuse  to 
give  them,  now  and  forever.  This  is  my  final  decision, 
Mr.  Alderdyce." 


A  LEGACY.  201 

But  as  Mr.  Santillana  spoke,  he  might  have  seen  a 
gradual  change  on  the  face  of  the  younger  man,  and  have 
recognized  an  expression  different  from  hifc  own  because 
of  a  difference  of  feature  and  temperament,  but  still  the 
reflection  of  a  resolution  as  deliberate  and  unconceding. 

The  massive,  still  face  at  one  side  of  the  table,  and  the 
thin,  nervously  determined  one  opposite,  looked  each  into 
each  steadily.  Although  there  was  a  strange  lack  of 
antagonism  in  words  and  manner,  both  knew  in  that 
moment  that  this  was  the  beginning  of  a  struggle  be 
tween  them,  as  desperate  and  perhaps  as  hopeless  as  the 
battling  of  the  stags  on  the  mountain-side  with  their 
antlers  interlocked. 

"  What  has  the  woman  who  last  night  promised  to  be 
my  wife  said  ?  " 

Mr.  Santillana's  hand  shaded  his  eyes  suddenly;  but 
there  was  no  faltering  in  his  voice  as  he  answered,  "  She 
is  my  child,  and  she  will  obey  me." 

"She  is  no  child  to-day;  she  is  a  woman,  and  has 
proven  it.  She  must  decide  between  us." 

But  here  the  contest  ceased  to  be  equal ;  on  this  point, 
the  father  was  in  a  position  of  vantage  from  which  he  was 
not  to  be  shaken. 

"  She  will  not  see  you  again,"  he  said,  rising ;  "  it  will 
be  wiser  for  her  to  have  less  to  remember.  And,  Mr. 
Alderdyce,  this  is  a  worse  than  useless  discussion." 

"  It  is  equally  useless  to  think  of  its  ending  here," 
Alderdyce  answered ;  "  and  1  can  only  regard  it  as  ended 
for  the  hour." 

As  he  left  the  house,  Alderdyce  fell  back  again  into  his 
first  bewilderment ;  Mr.  Santillana's  attitude  appeared  to 
him  even  more  incomprehensible  than  at  first.  He  spent 


202  A  LEGACY. 

the  rest  of  the  day  wandering  about  in  the  woods  of  Ayre, 
pondering  the  situation,  though  unable  to  arrive  at  any 
conclusion  exq^pt  the  hopelessness  of  solving  a  difficulty 
and  a  mystery  where  no  clew  could  be  gained.  Neverthe 
less,  the  thought  of  leaving  Ayre  and  Conchita  did  not 
occur  to  him. 

When  he  returned  to  his  lodgings,  late  in  the  evening, 
he  had  once  more  sought  an  interview  with  Mr.  Santillana, 
and  been  denied  admission  at  the  door, —  a  possibility  which 
he  had  not  considered. 

The  first  thing  which  caught  his  eye  on  entering  his 
own  room,  was  the  painting  of  Conchita  in  the  glade  ;  he 
had  set  it  out  on  his  easel  before  leaving  in  the  morning. 
Now,  plunged  in  thought,  but  not  yet  discouraged,  he  sat 
down  before  it  again,  and  if  with  not  quite  the  surety  of 
the  morning,  still  with  the  ability  to  dream  out  the  build 
ing  of  his  future  life  with  Conchita  as  the  corner-stone. 

He  saw  her  in  his  home  and  among  his  friends ;  he 
pictured  her  delight  in  the  world  he  would  show  her,  - 
guardedly,  not  as  he  knew  it,  though  seeing  it  through  his 
eyes. 

He  lived  over  and  over  again  the  evening  before,  and 
smiled,  remembering  Conchita's  struggles  when  he  tried 
to  teach  her  soft  Spanish  tongue  the  harsh  letters  of  his 
name.  "  Alderdyce  "  had  always  been  an  effort  to  her ; 
"  Anthony "  now  seemed  impossible.  She  made  the 
words  sound  like  her  native  language  by  her  pronuncia 
tion,  and  paused  before  each  one  as  if  to  arrange  lip  and 
tongue  before  speaking. 

"  Anthony !  " 

Alderdyce  almost  started  from  his  chair ;  for  a  moment 
he  thought  he  heard  Conchita's  voice  speaking  near  him. 


A  LEGACY.  203 

"  This  is  the  lover,  I  suppose,"  he  decided  with  amuse 
ment  ;  and  as  he  reached  this  conclusion,  again,  only  this 
time  more  distinctly,  he  heard  the  voice  which  he  could  not 
mistake,  with  the  accent  he  knew  so  well,  calling  his  name. 
He  sprang  from  his  chair  to  the  door,  and  opened  it. 

Conchita,  her  face  white  and  her  eyes  wide  with 
unspeakable  wretchedness,  stood  on  his  threshold. 

"  My  child  will  obey  me,"  Mr.  Santillana  had  said,  and 
believed ;  but  there  had  not  been  peace  in  his  household. 

Conchita,  thwarted  for  the  first  time  in  her  untram 
melled  life,  found  her  tears  and  entreaties  of  no  avail.  Her 
father's  gentle,  unyielding  resolution  maddened  her  by  its 
very  gentleness.  The  passionate  Southern  blood,  until 
now  slumbering  in  her  veins,  roused  to  wild  reproaches 
and  accusations  of  cruelty. 

Mr.  Santillana  stood  aghast  at  the  storm  which  he  was 
only  able  to  control  by  stern  words,  —  the  first  his  child 
had  ever  heard  from  his  lips. 

Conchita  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  that  night,  wounded 
and  resentful ;  and  none  of  her  dreams  told  her  of  the 
figure  which  stole  in,  after  night  was  morning,  to  kneel  in 
the  darkness  by  her  bedside,  nor  of  the  slow,  hot  tears 
that  dropped  on  her  head,  each  representing  a  deeper 
sorrow  than  all  that  she  had  ever  shed. 

The  next  day  the  same  scenes  were  enacted  over  and 
over. 

By  some  instinct,  Conchita  knew  of  her  lover's  pres 
ence  in  the  house  on  both  occasions  ;  and  her  entreaties  to 
see  him,  if  for  once  only,  were  piteous.  Her  father's 
drawn  features  bore  witness  of  his  sufferings,  though  his 
determination  remained  unshaken. 


204  A  LEGACY. 

That  Conchita's  vehemence  gradually  subsided  into 
broken  pleadings  and  quivering  lips  made  her  the  stronger ; 
but  she  seemed  calmer,  more  controlled,  when  she  parted 
from  her  father  at  night,  and  with  that  slight  comfort, 
worn  in  body  and  mind,  Mr.  Santillana  went  to  his  bed 
and  slept  the  heavy  sleep  of  exhaustion. 

When  he  woke  on  the  morrow,  it  was  only  with  a 
weary  shrinking  from  the  struggle  of  another  day.  He 
sat  waiting  in  the  breakfast -room,  longing  for  yet  dreading 
Conchita's  coming,  which  was  delayed  later  than  usual. 

Her  father  had  just  decided  to  send  for  her,  when  he 
heard  her  light,  flying  step  in  the  hall,  so  different  from 
the  listless  footfall  of  yesterday  that  he  looked  up  eagerly, 
and  as  the  door  opened  saw  a  sight  which  he  never 
forgot. 

The  dark  oak  doorway  was  framing  Conchita's  figure  ; 
her  long  red  cape,  her  red  cap,  her  face  all  alight  and 
flushed,  her  brilliant  eyes  and  parted  lips,  —  she  stood  for 
an  irresolute  instant  poised  like  a  vibrating  flame  on  the 
threshold.  Then  she  flashed  suddenly  across  the  room,  to 
fling  her  arms  about  her  father's  neck,  and  hide  her  face 
on  his  shoulder. 

Mr.  Santillana  rose,  thrusting  her  from  him,  yet  grasp 
ing  her  wrist  in  his  hand.  Over  his  child's  shoulder  he 
had  seen  Alderdyce  enter  also. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ? "  he  asked.  He  glanced  at 
Conchita's  cap  and  wrapping.  "  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 
he  demanded  harshly.  "  Child,  what  have  you  dared 
to  do  ? " 

The  girl  cowered  before  the  white  heat  of  his  indigna 
tion,  and  shrank  with  a  cry  of  pain  at  his  grasp. 

With  a  quick  motion  Alderdyce  threw  his  arm  about 


A  LEGACY.  205 

her,  drawing  her  toward  him.    "  She  is  my  wife,  Mr. 
Santillana,"  he  said ;   "  we  were  married  last  night." 

Mr.  Santillana  dropped  Conchita's  hand,  and  stood 
staring  dumbly  at  the  two  figures  before  him,  the  wife 
clinging  fearfully  to  her  husband,  who  was  standing  pro- 
tectingly  between  him  and  his  child.  He  turned  from  them 
with  a  gesture  of  despair  to  sink  into  his  chair,  covering 
his  stricken  face  with  his  hands. 

Conchita  broke  from  Alderdyce's  arms,  and  threw 
herself  on  her  knees  before  her  father.  Her  arms  were 
again  clasped  about  his  neck,  not  to  be  loosened  ;  her  lips 
were  at  his  ear,  passionately  imploring  forgiveness.  She 
drew  his  hands  away,  and  laid  her  tear-stained  cheek 
against  his  own. 

Alderdyce  only  waited  to  see  the  father  bend  and  fold 
her  in  his  arms ;  then  he  went  from  the  room  silently, 
leaving  them  together.  When  he  returned,  Conchita  was 
still  nestling  close  to  her  father's  breast,  sitting  on  his  knee 
with  her  head  resting  against  his  shoulder. 

Putting  her  gently  aside,  Mr.  Santillana  rose  and  held 
out  his  hand.  "Conchita  has  confessed  all,"  he  said. 

"  And  am  1  also  to  be  forgiven  ?  " 

"  You  must  know  that  1  have  nothing  to  forgive ;  what 
is,  is.  Will  you  try  to  wipe  the  memory  of  yesterday 
from  the  slate,  Alderdyce  ?  " 

The  younger  man's  face  spoke  his  relief,  as  their  hands 
met  in  a  cordial  grasp. 

"  And  now,"  Mr.  Santillana  continued,  with  a  lightness 
that  but  slightly  veiled  his  emotion,  "  we  must  eat  the  wed 
ding-breakfast ;  it  has  been  cooling  on  the  table  for  an 
hour,  and  will  taste  more  like  funeral  baked  meats,  1  fear. 
Come,  Conchita;  come,  my  children." 


206  A  LEGACY. 

It  was  a  strange  wedding-breakfast,  and  a  stranger 
honeymoon  which  followed. 

The  day  after  the  marriage  Mr.  Santillana  had  a  piece 
of  news  to  break  to  them  on  his  side.  He  announced  that 
he  meant  to  return  to  Spain  for  a  brief  visit.  His  property 
at  home  had  long  been  calling  for  his  personal  supervision, 
he  said ;  and  what  better  time  than  now,  when  Conchita's 
marriage  seemed  to  pave  the  way  to  the  performance  of 
this  long-neglected  duty. 

Conchita  was  in  despair  at  the  thought  of  such  a 
separation.  In  marrying  Alderdyce,  parting  from  her 
father  had  never  entered  her  mind ;  but  Mr.  Santillana 
stood  firm  in  his  decision,  and  with  this  journey  in  view, 
Conchita  would  not  consent  to  leave  him  even  for  the 
conventional  wedding-trip,  and  Alderdyce  did  not  urge  it. 
The  cloud  which  had  arisen  between  Mr.  Santillana  and 
himself  was  dispelled  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

Genuinely  American,  Alderdyce  only  remembered  the 
strange  contest  in  the  study,  to  put  it  down  to  some 
"  queer  foreign  notion,"  and  then  dismiss  it  wholly  from 
his  mind. 

They  walked  through  the  woods,  they  rode  and  drove 
over  each  mile  of  surrounding  country,  and  spent  whole 
days  boating  on  Swanton. 

"  Essence  of  lotus  leaves,  —  essence  of  lotus  leaves ;  it 
is  in  the  air  one  breathes  walking  through  the  dear  old 
grass-grown  streets,"  said  Alderdyce. 

Conchita  looked  up  from  her  zither,  which  lay  in  her 
lap.  She  sat  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  which  was  drift 
ing  down  Swanton  to  Ayre  ;  her  father  was  holding  the 
rudder-ropes,  and  Alderdyce  was  idly  leaning  on  his 
oars. 


A   LEGACY.  207 

"  Our  honeymoon  has  been  different  and  nicer  than 
any  ever  before,"  she  said. 

"  Utterly  different  and  infinitely  nicer,"  echoed  her 
husband,  as  she  waited  for  his  assent. 

"  We  have  been  chaperoned,  for  one  thing,"  she  went 
on,  smiling  back  at  her  father,  "and  we  have  made  our 
wedding-journey  in  little  bits  every  day.  We  shall  have 
travelled  as  many  miles  as  most  people  when  we  finish, 
shall  we  not,  Anthony  ?  " 

"  Anthony,"  repeated  Mr.  Santillana,  mimicking  her 
accent;  "I  can  pronounce  your  husband's  name  better 
than  his  wife  can,  little  one." 

"  Ask  her  to  tell  you  her  own  name,"  laughed 
Alderdyce. 

"  1  can  say  it  much  better  now,"  Conchita  answered 
with  dignity.  "  Mrs.  Anthony  Alderdyce,"  she  repeated 
slowly,  hopelessly  broadening  the  vowels  and  softening 
the  consonants.  "  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  she  cried, 
striking  the  chords  of  her  zither  to  drown  the  two  men's 
laughter.  "  Listen  !  " 

She  began  a  half -gay,  half-plaintive,  little  Spanish  love- 
song,  in  which  the  water  lapping  on  the  boat's  side,  the 
splash  of  a  rising  fish,  and  the  bird's  cries  on  the  river- 
bank,  seemed  but  a  part. 

"  Los  suspires  son  aire  y  van  al  aire, 
Las  la*grimas  son  agua  y  van  al  mar ; 
Dime,  mujer ;  cuando  el  amor  se  olvida, 
iSabes  tu  adonde  va*?" 

"Sighs  are  but  breath,  and  are  lost  in  the  air; 
Tears  are  but  water,  and  lost  in  the  tides. 
Tell  me,  O  woman,  when  love  is  forgotten, 
Dost  know  where  it  hides?" 


208  A   LEGACY. 

"  Let  others  say  my  name  as  they  may,"  said  Conchita, 
as  the  song  ended  ;  "  I  am  the  only  one  who  can  be  it,  am 
I  not,  Anthony  ?  " 

Alderdyce  bent  and  kissed  her,  laughing  again.  "  You 
blessed  baby  !  "  he  said,  "  does  that  still  rankle  ?  Play  me 
a  measure  now  to  row  by." 

So  they  walked  through  their  Arcadia  hand  in  hand, 
with  an  Arcadian  simplicity  of  which  the  man  was  as  bliss 
fully  conscious  as  the  woman  was  blissfully  unconscious. 

The  Pandora  was  a  finished  work,  and  a  wonderfully 
living  likeness ;  Mr.  Santillana's  preparations  for  his  jour 
ney  were  ended  ;  and  still  Alderdyce's  studio  and  the  work 
which  was  awaiting  his  home-coming  lay  neglected. 

The  effort  to  break  this  charmed  existence  was  wanting 
on  his  part,  and  the  resolution  to  hasten  the  separation 
was  lacking  with  Mr.  Santillana  ;  but  at  last  the  final  day 
of  the  rapidly  waning  honeymoon  was  selected  as  the 
date  for  sundering  old  ties  and  entering  into  a  new  life 
for  all. 

It  was  agreed  among  them  that  the  dreaded  separation 
should  be  a  topic  sent  to  Coventry ;  and  though  their 
gayety  was  at  times  a  mere  drapery  about  sadness,  perhaps 
those  last  summer  days,  with  the  end  so  near,  were  the 
happiest  of  all,  —  fuller  of  loving  memories  and  a  closer 
clinging  of  hearts. 

"  To-morrow  we  part,  children,"  said  Mr.  Santillana. 
"  Conchita,  you  must  leave  us  alone  to-night.  You  will 
need  all  the  sleep  you  can  snatch  for  your  journey,  little 
one ;  go  to  your  room  and  rest.  Do  you  come  with  me 
to  my  study,  Alderdyce." 

The  father  and  his  child's  husband  sat  in  the  quiet  study, 
talking  over  their  separate  plans  for  the  future. 


A   LEGACY.  209 

"  Come  and  live  with  us,"  Alderdyce  had  urged  over 
and  over. 

But  Mr.  Santillana  had  always  contrived  to  put  the 
question  by.  Now  he  made  no  secret  of  his  decision  to 
spend  the  greater  part  of  what  remained  of  his  life  in  his 
own  land 

"  Conchita  need  not  be  told  this,"  he  said  ;  "  I  can  visit 
you  at  times,  but  my  home  must  be  Spain." 

"  Do  you  really  dare  trust  Conchita  alone  with  me  ?  " 
asked  Alderdyce,  smiling.  "  Although  I  still  hope  to 
change  your  mind,  I  must  thank  you  for  the  confidence 
you  show." 

"  I  have  great  confidence  in  you,"  answered  Mr.  San 
tillana,  gravely  ;  "  and  yet  —  "  An  expression  of  troubled 
thought  passed  over  his  features;  he  sat  silent  for  a  time, 
and  then  rose  and  left  the  room,  returning  in  a  few 
moments  with  a  bottle  of  wine  and  two  glasses  in  his 
hand. 

"  Will  you  drink  a  toast  with  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  If  the  inside  is  what  the  outside  promises,  I  certainly 
will,  be  the  toast  what  it  may,"  Alderdyce  answered. 

"This  wine  has  been  used  at  every  wedding  in  our 
family  since  its  vintage,  in  1807.  The  wedding-toast  has 
always  been  drunk  in  it,  and  now  yours  shall  be." 

But  Mr.  Santillana's  grave  face  was  not  wearing  the 
expression  for  a  wedding  loving-cup,  Alderdyce  thought, 
as  he  watched  him  uncorking  the  bottle  and  filling  the 
glasses.  The  rich  golden  sherry  was  forming  in  little  oily 
beads  against  the  smooth  side,  as  Mr.  Santillana  took  the 
stem  of  his  glass  in  his  fingers  and  without  lifting  it  spoke 
slowly,  — 

"  Once  I  asked  you  to  wipe  out  all  memory  of  a  con- 

u 


210  A  LEGACY. 

versation  which  took  place  in  this  room ;  now  I  ask  you  to 
recall,  if  possible,  every  word  that  passed." 

Alderdyce  rose  instantly,  in  quiet  but  extreme  surprise, 
and  stood  waiting  for  what  should  follow  so  strange  a 
preface.  Mr.  Santillana  went  on, — 

"  It  may  help  you  to  understand  better  the  toast  I  wish 
to  propose." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  lifting  his  wine-glass, 
looked  over  it,  speaking  in  a  repressed,  excited  voice,  yet 
still  with  great  deliberation  :  — 

"  By  every  effort,  1  opposed  my  child's  marriage  to 
you ;  now,  whatever  the  outcome,  may  you  be  forever 
blessed  or  forever  cursed  as  you  treat  her  well  or  ill." 

The  sharp  click  of  Alderdyce's  glass  against  his  own, 
his  indignant  eyes,  his  quick  "  amen,"  all  came  as  a  hot 
retort-;  yet  when  the  two  glasses  were  set  down,  Mr, 
Santillana's  face  had  cleared.  He  turned  and  laid  his 
hand  on  Alderdyce's  arm  with  an  almost  caressing  gesture, 
saying,  - 

"  When  you  have  daughters  of  your  own,  you  may 
understand." 

"  Must  I  wait  until  then  ?  "  asked  Alderdyce,  coldly. 

"  You  cannot  forgive  a  father's  doubts  and  fears  then, 
Anthony  ? " 

The  winning  sweetness  of  voice  and  manner  were  too 
much  his  daughter's  for  Alderdyce  to  resist. 

"  You  may  trust  me  wholly,"  he  answered,  melting ; 
"  1  wish  you  could  have  done  so  unquestioningly,  that 
is  all." 

"  Perhaps  I  fear  most  from  Conchita,"  Mr.  Santillana 
said  thoughtfully  ;  "she  has  shown  herself  as  passionately 
determined  as  she  is  gentle.  You  will  be  very  tender  of 


A  LEGACY.  211 

her,  Anthony ;  but  you  must  be  as  tender  as  a  lover,  and 
as  watchful  as  a  father  should  be,  not  as  I  have  been.  And 
now,  having  asked  you  to  be  more  than  mortal,  I  have 
done." 

They  separated  for  the  night,  each  grave  with  the 
gravity  of  what  had  passed,  but  with  the  consciousness 
that  the  confidence  between  them  had  not  been  weakened  ; 
and  their  farewells  the  next  day  were  none  the  less  regret 
fully  sincere. 

Conchita  broke  down  utterly  at  the  last  moment.  She 
looked  around  the  familiar,  crescent-shaped  hall  with  long 
ing,  half-frightened  eyes,  and  then  clung  about  her  father's 
neck,  refusing  to  go  to  the  carriage  which  waited  at  the 
door. 

"  I  have  only  known  Anthony  for  two  months,  and  I 
have  loved  you  for  seventeen  years,"  she  sobbed. 

Mr.  Santillana  clasped  her  to  him  with  an  agony  be 
yond  tears  ;  he  kissed  over  and  over  again  the  lips  which 
pleaded  to  stay,  and  then  gently  loosening  her  clinging 
hands,  he  laid  them  in  her  husband's  and  hurried  from  the 
room.  The  parting  was  over.  The  new  life  began  with 
the  crossing  of  the  old  home's  threshold,  and  the  old  life 
ended  with  the  closing  of  the  door. 

Almost  two  years  had  passed  since  Conchita's  marriage, 
and  though  in  all  that  time  Mr.  Santillana  had  been  in 
America  but  once,  and  then  for  a  short  time  only,  Con 
chita  found  it  impossible  to  be  as  distressed  as  she  felt  she 
ought  to  be  at  the  change. 

"  It  is  not  Ayre,  and  my  father  is  not  here,  and  yet  — 
Anthony,  1  cannot  understand  it ;  I  am  ashamed  to  be  so 
happy,"  she  would  say. 


212  A  LEGACY. 

It  would  have  required  an  effort  on  the  part  of  most 
women  to  be  unhappy  in  her  surroundings.  The  whirling 
life  of  a  great  city  had  at  first  bewildered  her  eyes  and 
mind,  accustomed  to  the  sleepy  stillness  of  Ay  re  ;  but  she 
soon  learned  to  peep  out  into  the  new  world  with  a  timid 
curiosity,  until  what  had  seemed  strange  and  unnatural 
became  as  second  nature.  She  spent  the  greater  part  of 
her  days  in  her  husband's  studio,  which  had  been  only  an 
old  brick  stable  set  in  a  court  behind  their  home ;  but 
Alderdyce  had  evolved  from  it  a  studio  of  studios.  The 
building  remained  unchanged  outside,  except  that  the  door 
was  new,  and  bore  a  huge  old-fashioned  brass-knocker. 

Inside  the  whole  was  altered.  The  loft  was  torn  out, 
with  the  exception  of  a  strip  across  the  doorway  which 
was  reached  by  ladder-steps,  and  served  as  a  shelf  for 
Conchita's  piano  and  growing  plants.  Draperies,  hanging 
from  its  outer  edge  to  the  floor,  cut  off  a  portion  of  the 
room;  the  old  windows  were  boarded  over,  and  one  as 
large  as  safety  admitted,  was  cut  in  the  north  wall.  There 
was  no  useless  endeavour  to  make  the  interior  appear 
finished  ;  the  rough  rafters  of  the  roof  were  visible,  and 
the  rude  bricks  and  mortar  were  only  concealed  by  a  coat 
of  venetian-red  paint.  The  fittings  of  the  studio  were, 
however,  individual  and  unique,  and  its  chief  charm  to 
the  knowing  lay  in  its  atmosphere  of  genuine  work,  not 
to  be  created  by  any  affectation  of  workmanlike  surround 
ings,  however  artistically  arranged.  In  a  place  of  honour, 
on  one  of  the  walls,  hung  the  beautiful  Pandora,  repeated 
by  a  mirror  hanging  opposite.  An  open  fire  and  a  com 
modious  divan  formed  what  was  known  as  Conchita's 
corner,  —  for  there  she  and  her  zither  were  at  home. 

Alderdyce  had  cared  too  little  for  general  society  to 


A  LEGACY.  213 

introduce  his  wife  there;  but  among  the  inner  Israel  of 
artists  and  professional  men  who  frequented  his  studio, 
Conchita  was  a  well-known  figure.  In  this  critical  little 
kingdom,  where  some  wore  purple  and  fine  linen,  and 
others  threadbare  coats,  her  success  had  been  marked 
enough  to  have  startled  her  had  she  realized  it;  but 
though  few  have  chariot-wheels  that  unwittingly  take 
captives,  she  never  lost  the  innocent  unconsciousness  which 
constituted  her  chief  charm. 

Almost  two  years  of  married  life  had  passed  before  the 
autocratic  baby  first  showed  his  face  in  the  household,  and 
Conchita  rejoiced  doubly  in  his  coming,  as  she  hoped  to 
lure  her  father  to  her  side  by  the  news  of  a  grandson's 
arrival ;  but  even  these  wonderful  tidings  only  brought  a 
letter  in  reply,  over  which  the  young  mother  shed  tears  of 
disappointment.  She  had  set  her  heart  on  laying  her  baby 
in  her  father's  arms.  "Write  to  him  again,  Anthony; 
tell  him  he  must  come,  —  there  is  nothing  else  on  earth 
that  I  need  to  wish  for  now,"  she  said. 

"  Then,  if  you  have  but  one  earthly  wish,  I  may  write 
to  Spain  that  you  are  tolerably  happy,  may  I  not  ?  "  asked 
Alderdyce. 

"  Write  that  I  am  happier  than  happy,  my  husband." 

"  And  also  that  I  treat  you  fairly  well  ?  Your  father 
will  wish  particularly  to  know  that." 

Conchita  laughed  the  idle,  ready  laugh  of  a  light  heart. 
u  I  shall  write  myself  that  you  abuse  me.  Do  you  think 
that  would  bring  him  home,  Anthony  ?  " 

"  No,  not  when  the  news  of  this  miraculous  bundle  did 
not,"  Alderdyce  answered,  bending  to  take  the  soft,  limp, 
little  body  from  the  mother's  arms. 

"Where  have  you  hidden  him?"  he  asked,  searching 


214  A  LEGACY. 

among  the  wrappings  for  the  tiny  face  of  his  first-born. 
"  And  to  think  that  this  is  alive,  and  my  son,  my  proto 
type!  I  suppose  man  needs  to  be  shown  occasionally 
from  what  he  comes.  Come  here,  Impertinence !  " 

Conchita  looked  on  nervously. 

"  But  ah,  be  careful,  dearest ;  you  will  break  him  !  " 

"  Well,  is  n't  he  mine  ?  I  am  going  to  take  him  for  his 
first  walk,  and  show  him  the  world  he  is  to  fit  in  his 
sling." 

"  You  must  take  him  up  the  stairs  first,  then,  Anthony  ; 
and—  Oh,  wait,  dear,  there  is  more  to  arrange;  1  have 
the  little  Bible  and  bit  of  money  all  ready  somewhere." 

"  A  wife  and  a  mother,  and  no  years  of  discretion  yet, 
Conchita.  What  mumbo-jumbo  is  this,  you  superstitious 
child  ? " 

"The  money  in  one  hand,  and  the  Bible  in  the  other, 
and  up  in  the  world  first ;  it  should  always  be  so,  Anthony. 
Stop  laughing  and  hold  him  close  to  me." 

Alderdyce  watched  her  delighted  face  as  the  baby- 
fingers  closed  convulsively  over  the  coin.  "  See  how  wise 
he  is !  he  understands,"  she  cried  ;  "  and  now  —  " 

"  Let  us  hope  he  does  not,"  laughed  the  father,  as  the 
Bible  fell  to  the  floor.  "There,  don't  be  troubled,  dear 
heart ;  see,  he  is  clutching  both  like  a  practical  Christian. 
Now  for  the  triumphal  procession." 

"Are  these  your  heathen  rites,  then,  my  children?" 
said  a  voice  behind  them ;  and  Conchita,  turning  with  a 
cry  of  joy,  was  clasped  in  her  father's  arms. 

"  My  heart  kept  pulling  and  pulling  you  here,  and  so 
you  have  come,  Padre." 

"  And  so  1  have  come ;  you  know  how  it  is  yourself 
now,  little  one.  Show  me  the  child,  my  beloved." 


A  LEGACY.  215 

Mr.  Santillana  had  arrived  by  the  same  steamer  which 
brought  his  letter.  At  the  last  moment,  it  seemed,  he  had 
found  it  impossible  to  stay  away,  and  he  had  hurriedly 
taken  passage  for  America  and  arrived  without  notice  in 
the  happy  triangular  household,  to  be  cooed  over  by 
Conchita,  and  warmly  welcomed  by  Alderdyce. 

For  the  first  few  days  after  his  coming  there  was  little 
thought  of  beyond  the  joys  of  reunion;  but  Alderdyce 
soon  decided  that  the  father  looked  older  and  careworn. 

"  You  are  missing  Conchita,  Mr.  Santillana,"  he  said ; 
"  why  not  stay  with  us  altogether  ?  You  have  made  the 
break  now,  let  it  rest  so." 

"  Now  that  1  have  him,  he  shall  not  slip  from  me 
again,"  Conchita  declared,  holding  fast  by  his  hand. 
"  You  will  stay,  Padre,  will  you  not  ?  Ah,  why  do  you 
wish  to  go  ?  " 

Mr.  Santillana  smiled  sadly. 

"  You  have  yet  to  learn  what  duty's  must  means,  my 
child ;  1  shall  stay  as  long  as  I  may,  be  sure.  But  you 
have  not  yet  seen  what  I  have  for  my  grandson,"  he 
added  quickly,  seeing  Conchita's  eyes  fill  with  tears; 
"  here  it  is,  open  it  for  him." 

Conchita  opened  the  odd-shaped  package  which  he 
gave  her,  with  curiosity.  Its  outward  semblance  was  only 
a  common  little  earthenware  pot;  but  as  she  raised  the 
lid,  the  contents  proved  to  be  a  quantity  of  gold  pieces. 

"  He  shall  start  life  with  a  pot  of  money,  however  he 
may  end,"  Mr.  Santillana  said,  smiling  at  the  fact  that 
Conchita's  delight  in  the  conceit  was  far  greater  than  her 
pleasure  in  its  more  tangible  value. 

"  You  shall  keep  the  gold,  Anthony,"  she  said,  care 
lessly  pouring  it  out  into  his  hands;  "all  but  this  largest 


216  A   LEGACY. 

piece,  that  he  shall  cut  his  teeth  on,  and  the  gold-pot  shall 
be  his  powder-box,  if  only  the  puff  fits.  Do  you  try  it, 
Padre." 

Mr.  Santillana,  amused  by  the  little  womanly  arrange 
ments,  turned  over  the  contents  of  the  baby's  basket, 
searching  for  the  puff ;  suddenly  he  started  and  looked  up. 

"  Where  did  you  get  this  ? "  he  asked.  He  was  hold 
ing  up  a  copy  of  Ibsen's  plays.  "  Have  you  read  this, 
Conchita?" 

"  No ;  I  found  them  on  the  table,  and  put  them  by  to 
read." 

Mr.  Santillana  walked  quickly  toward  the  fireplace  with 
the  book  in  his  hand,  and  a  moment  later  the  volume 
would  have  been  in  the  flames,  had  not  Alderdyce  called 
out  a  protest. 

"  They  won't  hurt  my  morals,  Mr.  Santillana.  1  was 
reading  the  plays  myself ;  1  promise  to  take  them  out  to 
the  studio  where  Conchita  won't  see  them." 

Mr.  Santillana  drew  back  and  laid  the  volume  down. 
"  Perhaps  I  am  forgetting  that  it  is  your  wife  and  your 
book  and  your  house,"  he  said,  his  colour  rising  slightly. 

" '  Todo  ello  es  de  Usted,'  including  the  baby,"  answered 
Alderdyce,  good-humouredly ;  "  and  1  hope  that  sounds 
familiar  and  makes  you  feel  at  home  at  the  same  time. 
You  may  burn  every  book  in  the  house  if  you  will  only 
stay." 

But  in  spite  of  urging  from  Alderdyce,  and  almost 
forcible  detention  from  Conchita,  Mr.  Santillana  persisted 
in  his  intention  of  speedy  return.  He  had  seen  Conchita 
surrounded  by  devoted  friends,  the  centre  of  her  husband's 
heart,  her  life  filled  and  rounded  by  the  new  cares  of 
motherhood ;  and  he  left  the  more  easily  because  he  could 


A   LEGACY.  217 

not  doubt  the  sure  foundations  on  which  her  happiness 
rested. 

And  yet,  the  very  night  after  his  departure,  those 
foundations  were  shaken  to  the  centre.  The  little  life 
which  seemed  too  small  to  be  the  cope-stone,  was  suddenly 
withdrawn.  There  was  no  time  for  preparation,  hardly 
any  warning.  It  was  all  over  with  merciful  quickness,  the 
physician  said ;  but  Alderdyce,  stunned  and  heart-sick, 
looking  at  the  stricken  mother,  could  see  no  mercy 
anywhere. 

He  had  found  it  hardly  possible  to  make  Conchita 
realize  the  truth  ;  only  after  he  took  the  lifeless  little 
body  from  her  arms  did  her  bewildered  mind  seem  to 
grasp  her  loss.  The  terror  of  the  shock  appeared  literally 
to  hold  her  in  its  clutch ;  she  cowered  under  it  as  from  a 
physical  blow. 

Alderdyce  had  no  time  for  his  own  grief  in  ministering 
to  hers.  He  thought  for  her,  lived  for  her,  tended  her 
every  moment  in  those  days  of  despair. 

"Take  her  away,  Mr.  Alderdyce,"  the  physician  coun 
selled;  "mentally  and  bodily  she  must  have  instant 
change."  And  Alderdyce,  ready  to  seek  any  remedy, 
hurried  his  wife  to  the  seaside.  The  spring  was  advanc 
ing  and  he  hoped  everything  from  the  long  hours  when  he 
kept  her  out  of  doors  basking  in  the  sun  on  the  rocks. 

Before  long  the  faint  colour  which  rose  in  her  cheeks 
gave  him  new  courage.  She  grew  calmer  also,  and  would 
sit  by  his  side  silent  for  hours,  looking  out  over  the  sea 
with  sad  eyes,  yet  gaining  comfort  from  it,  Alderdyce 
thought,  until  one  gray  morning  when  he  knew  differently. 
They  were  sitting  on  the  rocks  together,  Conchita  silent  as 
ever  and  Alderdyce  watching  the  scene  before  them  with 


218  A   LEGACY. 

an  artist's  delight ;  the  sun  had  been  shining  fitfully  and 
feebly,  but  now  the  sharp  sea-air  was  striking  in  their  faces, 
the  gray  stretch  of  water  merged  into  the  gray  of  the  hori 
zon,  and  the  sky  was  full  of  low-hanging  clouds  scudding 
before  the  rising  wind.  A  thin  line  of  angry,  dull  yellow 
lay  in  the  east,  whence  the  wind  came. 

In  the  distance,  battling  and  fluttering,  a  small  white - 
winged  vessel  was  struggling  for  harbour,  while  the  boom 
of  the  swelling  breakers  beat  with  a  troubled  pulse,  like 
rhythm,  on  the  shore. 

"  That  boat  is  in  some  danger,"  said  Alderdyce,  at  last, 
rising  to  his  feet;  "it  would  do  better  headed  for  the 
open  sea." 

Almost  as  he  spoke,  he  was  startled  by  Conchita's  voice 
in  an  outbreak  of  wild  sorrow  and  lamenting. 

"  Oh,  take  me  away !  "  was  the  burden.  She  sat  with 
her  hands  over  her  ears,  shutting  out  the  voice  of  the  sea ; 
in  its  murmurs  she  heard  her  baby's  crying,  and  its  deeper 
tones  frightened  her. 

Alderdyce  vainly  tried  to  soothe  her.  "  But  you  are 
better,  dearest;  see  how  much  stronger  than  when  you 
came." 

"I  am  afraid,  —  afraid,"  she  whispered.  "Ah,  An 
thony,  take  me  home !  " 

"  Afraid  of  what,  dear  love  ? " 

"  That  awful  sea,  it  is  taking  my  baby  from  me ;  but 
I  shall  surely  remember  him  when  I  am  home  again.  Oh, 
take  me  there,  Anthony ;  take  me  home! " 

Alderdyce,  with  a  sudden  pallor  on  his  face,  lifted  her 
head  from  his  breast,  and  looked  deep  into  her  eyes ;  as 
he  did  so,  the  shadow  of  the  fear  which  was  in  them  grew 
into  his. 


A  LEGACY.  219 

''You  shall  go  home  now,  if  you  will,"  he  replied, 
gently  soothing  her. 

As  they  moved  away,  he  glanced  back  once  more. 

Far  off  in  the  distance,  a  tiny  white  speck  showed  that 
the  little  vessel  was  yielding  to  the  untempered  wind,  and 
seeking  refuge  in  the  open  sea.  The  scene  stamped  itself 
indelibly  on  his  brain,  and  he  carried  it  away  with  him 
then  and  forever  after. 

Mr.  Santillana  had  found  the  cable  telling  of  his  grand 
son's  death  awaiting  him  on  reaching  Spain,  and  had 
cabled  in  reply  that  he  would  return  by  the  next  steamer. 
Alderdyce  built  much  on  the  prospect  of  his  presence.  In 
her  own  home,  Conchita  had  certainly  grown  stronger ; 
but  as  the  excitement  of  the  grief  passed,  a  settled  melan 
choly  and  childish  petulance  seemed  to  take  its  place. 

She  would  consent  to  no  medical  attention;  and  her 
physician,  judging  it  wiser  to  humour  her,  received  his 
report  through  her  husband,  who  yielded  to  every  whim 
with  a  tender  patience  which  he  felt  was  hopelessly  in 
adequate,  for  the  end  was  always  a  scene  of  passionate 
self-reproach  on  Conchita's  part,  and  then  the  weary 
round  over  again.  She  had  ceased  speaking  of  her  baby ; 
and  after  once  breaking  what  he  felt  to  be  a  danger 
ous  silence,  Alderdyce  dared  not  repeat  the  agitating 
experiment. 

From  the  constant  strain  on  nerves,  mind,  and  heart, 
and  the  brooding  fear  of  he  knew  not  what,  he  was  look- 
ing  more  of  an  invalid  than  Conchita  when  at  last  the 
ship  on  which  Mr.  Santillana  had  sailed  was  sighted  as  due 
that  same  evening. 

Alderdyce  carried  the  news  to  Conchita,  watching  her 


220  A  LEGACY. 

awakened  interest  hopefully,  as  she  asked  over  and  over  of 
the  exact  hour  when  her  father  might  be  expected  to  arrive. 

She  prepared  his  room  herself,  and  would  let  no  one 
else  enter  it.  With  a  heart  full  of  thankfulness,  Alderdyce 
saw  her  looking  and  acting  once  more  like  herself.  The 
ugly  wordless  fears  which  had  raised  their  heads  and 
haunted  him,  were  laid  to  rest. 

She  had  almost  turned  from  him  in  her  self-absorption, 
but  now  this  was  changed  also ;  she  seemed  to  crave  his 
presence,  his  touch;  and  when,  toward  evening,  he  was 
forced  to  leave  her  to  meet  a  pressing  engagement,  she 
clung  to  him  with  tender  words  and  kisses  which  stirred 
him  strangely.  Even  then  he  would  have  lingered  had 
she  not  sent  him  from  her. 

"  You  must  go,  dear  love;  for  1  must  sleep  before  my 
father  comes,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  I  have  been  a  great 
care  to  you,  dearest ;  but  from  now  I  shall  care  for  myself. 
Kiss  me  once  more  and  go." 

Alderdyce  left  her  reluctantly,  and  detained  by  his 
engagement  longer  than  he  had  expected,  hurried  home, 
facing  a  gorgeous  sunset.  He  walked  with  a  lighter  step 
and  a  lighter  heart  than  he  had  known  for  weeks.  The 
clouds  in  the  west  glowed,  as  he  looked  at  them,  with 
more  and  more  beauty. 

"  Conchita  must  see  this,"  he  thought,  "  even  if  1  wake 
her  for  it." 

He  ran  up  the  stairs  to  her  room,  three  steps  at  once, 
calling  her,  but  the  rooms  were  empty;  and  seeing  the 
key  of  the  studio  taken  from  its  place,  he  knew  that  he 
should  find  her  there,  as  in  the  habit  of  happier  days.  He 
walked  quickly  across  the  courtyard,  and  opened  the  lock 
with  his  latch-key. 


A  LEGACY.  221 

"  Where  are  you  ? "  he  called,  as  he  entered,  and  was 
met  by  silence  and  a  closed  door ;  the  inner  door,  which 
always  stood  open,  was  shut,  and  as  he  turned  the  handle 
in  the  lock,  it  resisted. 

"Conchita!" 

There  was  a  sudden  stillness,  as  if  all  creation  held  its 
breath  with  him,  listening ;  and  then  Alderdyce  heard  a 
strange  voice,  which  he  yet  knew  as  his  own,  whisper, 
"  Not  that,  my  God,  not  that !  " 

In  those  moments,  standing  with  his  hand  on  the  lock, 
he  knew  all  that  he  had  feared,  all  that  he  had  fought, 
fearing.  The  future,  the  other  side  of  those  wooden 
panels,  held  no  shock,  only  fulfilment. 

He  reeled  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  weakness  passed. 
He  stepped  back  and  flung  the  full  force  of  his  body 
on  the  door  until  it  groaned  beneath  the  blows  of  his 
foot  and  shoulder ;  the  lock  broke  suddenly,  and  he  was 
in  the  room. 

Her  cheek  pillowed  softly  on  her  hand,  her  eyes  closed, 
her  lips  apart  as  if  she  breathed  gently  in  her  sleep,  Con 
chita  lay  on  the  divan  by  the  tireplace. 

Thus  Alderdyce  had  seen  her  sleep  a  thousand  times ; 
and  yet  he  knew,  before  he  caught  her  to  him,  that  her 
head  would  lie  lifeless  in  his  bosom,  and  her  lips  breathless 
beneath  his,  —  knew  that  there  would  be  coldness  in  the 
very  warmth  of  her  body,  that  her  heart  would  be  silent 
under  his  searching  hand. 

He  moved  as  one  in  a  waking  dream,  knowing  that 
each  anticipating  thought  must  be  fulfilled.  The  vial 
which  stood  by  the  couch  was  no  surprise;  with  every 
sense  sharpened,  its  opium  odour  was  in  his  nostrils  before 
he  drew  the  stopper,  and  he  felt  it  must  be  there  ever  after. 


222  A  LEGACY. 

He  knelt,  holding  her  close  in  his  arms,  cradling  her  on 
his  heart,  where  there  was  nothing  but  a  dumb,  dull 
acceptance.  The  magnitude  of  this  loss  held  a  kernel  of 
kindness,  by  stunning  sorrow  and  blotting  out  time ;  but 
at  last  the  jewelled  dagger,  falling  from  her  hair  to  the  floor, 
roused  him.  He  bent,  holding  her  in  one  arm,  and  while 
carefully  replacing  the  bauble  on  the  crest  of  the  highest 
wave  of  her  hair  as  she  always  wore  it,  remembered  that 
evening  by  the  fire  in  the  glade  when  he  had  first  replaced 
it  thus,  and  the  remembrance  was  as  a  turn  of  the  knife  in 
his  wound. 

As  he  moved,  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  book  lying  on 
the  divan  near  her  hand,  probably  the  last  thing  the  living 
hand  had  held,  — "  Ibsen's  Plays."  It  opened  as  he  lifted 
it,  and  a  little  gold  pencil  rolled  out ;  down  the  page  ran 
faint  marks.  The  play  was  "  Ghosts."  Some  of  the 
words  were  underscored,  and  Alderdyce  read  them  pain 
fully,  half  comprehendingly :  "  Yes,  it  is  sitting  here, 
waiting;  and  it  may  break  out  any  day,  —  at  any  mo 
ment."  He  re-read,  roused  to  the  meaning,  and  went  on 
relentlessly,  turning  the  page  to  find  more  marks.  "  But 
when  I  got  to  know  what  had  been  the  matter  with  me, 
tben  the  dread  came  upon  me  raging  and  tearing" 

As  he  read  now  he  strained  the  slight  body  closer  and 
closer  to  him ;  great  drops  stood  on  his  brow,  and  he 
quivered  -as  though  each  word  were  a  lash.  Had  this  been 
her  life  in  these  weeks,  —  this,  when  he  thought  he  held 
and  guarded  her  in  soul  and  mind  as  closely  as  at  this 
moment  he  held  her  body. 

"  For  it 's  so  indescribably  awful,  you  know.  Ob,  if 
it  bad  been  merely  an  ordinary  mortal  disease  !  For  I  'm 
not  so  afraid  of  death,  though  I  should  like  to  live  as  long 
as  I  can." 


A  LEGACY.  223 

With  a  cry  of  agony,  Alderdyce  flung  the  book  from 
him ;  he  rocked  his  wife  in  his  arms,  drawing  the  droop 
ing  head  closer  on  his  shoulder,  sheltering  her  face  against 
his  own.  He  had  almost  breathed  for  her,  and  yet  the 
intangible  soul  had  not  been  his ;  it  had  thought  its  sep 
arate  thoughts,  plunged  into  deeps  which  he  shuddered  to 
glance  at,  looked  in  the  face  of  the  lurking  horror  of 
which  he  had  scarcely  dared  whisper  the  name,  and  at 
last  dragged  her  body  from  his  very  arms.  But  not  yet, 
—  his  for  a  short  time  yet. 

There  were  footsteps  in  the  court  outside.  Alderdyce 
could  hear  a  man's  voice  and  a  woman's  coquettish  laugh ; 
they  paused  at  the  door,  and  through  it  came  echoes  of 
a  rude  courtship,  —  the  man's  urging,  the  woman's  light 
replies.  Was  there  still  marriage  and  giving  in  marriage 
in  the  world  then,  for  such  ending  as  this ! 

He  knew  that  he  had  only  to  raise  his  voice  and  the 
quiet  of  the  room  would  be  broken  by  what  he  could  not 
think  of,  —  figures  crowding  in  to  take  her  from  him; 
questions ;  each  detail  noted ;  all  that  he  had  learned  with 
tears  of  blood_known  to  a  careless  world ;  Conchita's  name 
in  every  mouth. 

The  whole  man  rose  in  revolt ;  he  raised  himself,  lay 
ing  his  burden  tenderly  back  among  the  cushions,  stooping 
once  more  to  touch  the  sweet  breathless  lips  with  his  own 
and  to  rearrange  the  pillow  beneath  her  head,  with  a 
jealous  care  for  her  comfort,  pitifully  unnecessary. 

With  an  effort  he  turned  away  and  moved  first  to  the 
door,  examining  it  closely  ;  the  hasp  was  wrenched  and 
the  fastening  bent  and  twisted,  but  he  patiently  worked 
all  into  place.  His  face  was  set  with  a  dogged  resolve  as 
he  went  on  with  the  work  he  had  set  himself.  The  copy 


224  A   LEGACY. 

of  Ibsen,  lying  where  it  had  been  flung  face  down,  came 
next,  and  he  touched  it  as  a  noxious  thing ;  he  tore  out 
the  fluttering  leaves  that  now  told  of  a  second  tragedy, 
shredded  them  in  the  empty  fireplace,  then  tore  the  backs 
apart,  and  set  fire  to  the  whole.  A  vague  feeling  that  he 
had  lived  through  this  before  came  to  him  suddenly,  then  a 
memory  of  the  time  when  he  had  saved  this  volume  from 
this  same  destruction  at  Mr.  Santillana's  hands,  and  for 
what  ?  Had  the  father  seen  some  foreshadowing  of  this  ? 

The  maddening  "  perhaps  "  of  life  began  its  torturing 
work, — might  he  not  have  saved  her  then  by  a  turn  of  his 
hand  ?  He  shook  the  weakening  suggestion  from  him, 
and  after  one  more  searching  glance  about  the  chamber  of 
death,  opened  the  door  that  led  into  the  outer  world, 
carrying  the  fatal  vial  in  his  hand. 

Then  it  all  came,  —  the  horror,  the  confused  running  to 
and  fro,  the  physician's  useless  summons,  the  flying  wheels 
of  his  carriage  in  the  street,  and  his  authoritative  entrance, 
checking  the  startled  questions  which  received  no  answer 
but  stony  silence  from  Alderdyce,  who  stood  at  the  inner 
door  of  the  studio  guarding  it.  He  stepped  forward  to 
meet  the  physician,  holding  out  the  empty  vial. 

"  It  is  no  use ;  she  is  quite  dead,"  he  said,  in  a  flat, 
mechanical  voice.  "  I  gave  her  this  by  mistake." 

The  physician  caught  the  vial  from  his  hand.  As  he 
drew  the  stopper,  Alderdyce,  with  a  supreme  effort,  fast 
ened  his  eyes  keenly  on  his  face,  and  saw  the  horror- 
stricken  expression  which  crossed  it  soften  to  deepest 
commiseration  as  their  eyes  met;  then  a  tension  some 
where  in  his  brain  seemed  to  snap,  a  misty  dimness  settled 
down  on  his  vision,  in  which  the  pitying  face  receded, 
gradually  grew  smaller,  and  faded  away. 


A  LEGACY.  225 

He  knew  also  that  another  confusion  was  suddenly 
added  in  the  room,  that  a  little  later  alien  hands  touched 
his  wife,  from  which  he  fiercely  protected  her  until  a 
troublesomely  familiar  voice,  which  he  could  not  name, 
interfered,  and  gently  bade  him  carry  her  himself.  Lifting 
her  in  his  arms,  he  felt  his  way  across  the  court,  up  the 
stair,  and  there  laid  her  on  her  own  bed.  After  that  he 
was  only  conscious  of  days  and  nights  passing,  and  of 
being  led  through  some  ceremony ;  but  in  his  weary  effort 
to  grasp  its  meaning  the  darkness  descended  wholly,  —  a 
total  blackness,  with  no  night  or  day. 

Its  first  break  was  a  footfall,  heard  always  after  the  first 
time  it  reached  his  ear ;  it  was  like  an  echo  of  his  own 
in  their  ceaseless  wandering  through  the  house,  into  the 
studio,  and  back  through  the  court  again.  Gradually  he 
grew  to  listen  for  the  sound,  to  depend  on  it,  —  never  in 
vain.  Little  by  little  the  darkness  focussed  into  a  figure, 
sitting  by  his  side  in  the  gloom,  rising  with  his  rising,  and 
moving  with  his  movements.  There  were  hands  which 
placed  a  cup  at  his  lips,  and  a  voice  that  crept  into  his  ear 
and  reached  his  brain,  stirring  it  painfully  by  its  unceasing 
effort  to  rouse  him  to  what  he  could  not  comprehend. 

And  at  last  Alderdyce  looked  up  with  seeing  eyes  into 
Mr.  Santillana's  face.  He  glanced  about  the  room,  and 
recognized  his  studio,  Conchita's  divan,  and  then  all  came 
crowding  back. 

" '  Forever  blessed  or  forever  cursed,'  you  said,  you 
remember ;  have  you  come  to  see  the  curse  work  ? "  he 
asked  quietly. 

"  Anthony,  my  beloved  son ! "  It  was  the  same  haunt 
ing  voice  and  footstep ;  Alderdyce  recognized  them  now. 

"  It  has  been  you,  then  ?  "  he  asked  dully.  "  So  you 
15 


226  A  LEGACY. 

have  not  heard  ?  I  gave  her  the  poison,  and  she  is  dead ; 
1  think  it  was  a  mistake." 

There  was  no  answer.  Mr.  Santillana's  face  was  buried 
in  his  hands ;  when  he  drew  them  away,  they  were  wet 
with  tears. 

"  Do  you  still  recognize  me,  Anthony  ? "  he  asked, 
rising  and  laying  his  hands  on  the  bent  shoulders.  "  Can 
you  listen  to  what  I  must  tell  you  sooner  or  later?  " 

Alderdyce  raised  a  white  face  from  which  every  trace 
of  emotion  seemed  to  have  been  wiped  forever ;  nor  was 
there  any  change  as  Mr.  Santillana  spoke. 

The  story  told  was  short,  though  it  contained  the 
accumulated  misery  of  generations.  The  awful  curse  of 
insanity  had  descended  in  the  blood  from  father  to  son, 
from  mother  to  daughter.  Mr.  Santillana's  voice  trembled 
as  he  hurried  over  the  history  of  the  days  when  he  saw 
Conchita's  mother  fading  from  him,  first  in  mind  and  then 
in  body.  He  was  watching  Alderdyce  closely,  but  not  even 
a  fleeting  expression  crossed  the  cold,  death-like  face.  He 
told  how  the  hope  of  saving  Conchita  had  induced  his 
taking  her  from  her  Spanish  home,  guarding  her  thus  from 
any  chance  knowledge  of  the  legacy  which  might  be  hers ; 
and  when  her  unexpected  marriage  allowed  it,  even  sepa 
rating  her  from  himself  and  from  any  sight  of  his  anxiety 
which  might  betray  the  secret  to  her. 

"  But  all  was  in  vain,  as  it  was  written.  There  was  no 
eluding  it.  Anthony,  if  I  dared  tell  you  of  the  days  of 
agony  and  scenes  of  horror  which  I  have  known,  you 
might  count  yourself  blessed  in  your  grief." 

Alderdyce  listened  listlessly.  "  What  matter  now  ? "  he 
answered,  turning  away  his  hot,  dry  eyes. 

Mr.  Santillana  looked  at  him  with  a  growing  anxiety  in 


A  LEGACY.  227 

his  face ;  the  lethargy  which  it  seemed  impossible  to  break 
was  deepening  again. 

"  There  is  one  thing  more  which  I  must  tell  you,"  he 
said  gently  ;  "  there  is  nothing  in  my  child's  life  or  death 
which  I  do  not  know.  Anthony,  your  secret  is  mine  also." 

Alderdyce  started  violently,  and  looked  up. 

"  1  found  this  in  my  room  when  I  came,"  Mr.  Santillana 
went  on ;  "  read  it." 

He  laid  a  bit  of  folded  paper  on  the  table  before  Alder 
dyce,  who  tore  it  open  with  shaking  fingers.  A  dark  flush 
spread  over  his  white  face  as  he  saw  Conchita's  writing. 
The  words  were  almost  too  incoherent  for  understanding  ; 
but  the  irresponsible  pathos  of  the  tender  farewell  knocked 
on  his  parched  heart  as  Moses's  rod  on  the  rock  in  the 
wilderness,  —  the  healing  waters  rushed  forth  in  answer. 

Mr.  Santillana  bent  over  the  bowed  head  and  shaken 
figure  with  a  relief  beyond  words. 

"  Thank  God,  thank  God,"  he  murmured  brokenly 
at  last,  adding  more  firmly,  "  for  this  and  all  his  other 
mercies." 

A  gray  morning  by  the  seaside  —  the  gray  of  the  hori 
zon  merging  into  the  gray  of  the  sea,  a  small  vessel  beating 
painfully  in  sight  of  harbour,  and  a  white  line  of  breakers 
on  the  sand,  a  sky  full  of  dusky,  low-hanging  clouds,  save 
for  a  strip  of  angry  yellow,  the  wind's  cradle;  all  Nature 
threatening  and  presaging  a  rising  storm  —  was  the  sub 
ject  of  an  unfinished  picture  which  stood  on  an  easel  in 
Alderdyce's  studio. 

The  artist  sat  before  it,  too  absorbed  in  his  work  to 
hear  Mr.  Santillana's  entrance  or  to  know  when  he  paused 
at  his  side. 


228  A  LEGACY. 

The  older  man  stood  looking  down  at  the  work  and  the 
worker  with  a  sad  yet  not  unhappy  smile.  The  artist's 
face  was  thinner,  and  there  were  new  lines  there ;  but  if 
sorrow's  modelling  knife  had  taken  something  from  it, 
something  also  had  been  added.  There  were  peace  and 
strength  in  the  interested  face,  and  no  unrest  in  the  eager 
ness  of  the  eyes.  He  looked  up  as  Mr.  Santillana  laid  his 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  smiled  at  the  approval  he  read 
in  silence. 

"  Yes,  it  is  wonderful ;  and  yet  but  a  memory,"  said  Mr. 
Santillana,  at  last.  "  Why  so  vivid  a  one,  Anthony  ?  " 

Alderdyce  glanced  up  at  the  beautiful,  wondering  face 
of  the  Pandora  above  him. 

"  But  a  vivid  memory,"  he  repeated  slowly ;  and  the 
two  men  looked  into  each  other's  faces  as  comrades  who 
did  not  need  words. 


THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT. 


THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT. 


"  DOAT,  Michael  Kelly !     Boat,  boat,  Michael  Kelly !  " 

'-'  He  was  not  a  mountaineer ;  and  his  dress,  severely 
simple  yet  distinctive,  was  unusual  on  the  mountain-side. 
He  was  short  of  stature;  his  black  hat  had  a  stiff  wide 
brim,  his  black  coat  was  buttoned  trimly  to  the  throat,  and 
he  carried  a  neat  leather  satchel  in  his  hand.  As  he  stood 
on  the  river-bank  in  the  moonlight,  calling  at  regular 
intervals,  a  figure  more  out  of  keeping  with  the  wild 
surroundings  could  not  well  be  imagined.  His  name  was 
Thomas  Bates. 

At  last  an  answering  cry  came  from  the  opposite  shore, 
and  a  little  later,  a  heavy,  flat-bottomed  boat  slid  out  from 
the  sharp  line  of  shadow  cast  by  the  willow-trees  growing 
thickly  on  the  bank.  The  boatman,  punting  across  the 
current,  stood  upright,  and  used  his  clumsy  pole  as  only 
old  river-men  can. 

The  stranger  walked  to  the  water's  edge  and  lifted  his 
head,  looking  out  from  under  the  shadow  of  his  hat.  He 
wore  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  and  the  brown  eyes  behind 
them  were  shrewd,  kindly,  and  humorous. 

"  Friend,"  he  called,  "  is  thy  name  Michael  Kelly  ?  " 

The  man  addressed  leaned  on  his  pole  and  surveyed 


232  THOMAS   BATES'S  COVENANT. 

the  wayfarer  at  leisure.  "  You  've  said  it,"  he  answered 
laconically. 

"  I  was  told  that  thee  would  carry  me  across  the 
river." 

Michael  Kelly  shoved  the  boat  to  the  shore,  and  held  it 
against  the  current  with  the  pole. 

"  And  further,"  the  calm  voice  went  on,  "  I  was  told 
that  thee  would  not  be  offended  if  I  asked  shelter  for  the 
night  in  thy  house." 

"  Get  in,"  Michael  answered,  "  and  hurry ;  the  waters 
are  a'  pullin'  on  the  pole." 

The  stranger  looked  up  stream  and  down  as  they 
crossed.  On  either  hand  the  scenery  was  superbly  wild ; 
the  moonlight  was  brilliant,  and  the  river  full  of  strange, 
rushing,  restless  sounds.  When  they  landed,  Michael 
Kelly  tied  his  boat  under  the  willows  and  pointed  up 
the  bank. 

"  Will  thee  then  take  me  in  for  the  night  ? "  said  the 
stranger,  pleasantly.  "  My  name  is  Thomas ;  1  wish  to 
visit  in  this  district  to-morrow." 

Michael  nodded;  he  was  a  man  of  few  words.  "  I 
guess  the  Mistis  can  rig  yer  up  a  bed  somehow,  Mr. 
Thomas,"  he  replied. 

Thomas  Bates  looked  at  the  cabin  which  was  Michael 
Kelly's  home  curiously  as  they  approached.  It  was  an 
unusual-looking  building :  the  pointed  roof  lapped  over  at 
ends  and  hung  down  in  long  eaves  at  the  sides ;  the  cabin 
proper  was  as  if  snuffed  out  by  the  extinguishing  cover. 

"  It  seems  that  thy  roof -tree  has  taken  root  and  grown, 
Friend,"  said  Mr.  Bates. 

.He  listened  with  interest  as  Michael  laboriously  ex 
plained  how  he  had  first  built  his  cabin,  and  then  bought 


THOMAS   BATES'S  COVENANT.  233 

the  roof  second-hand  from  a  neighbour  who  was  tearing 
down  his  old  house. 

"  It  don'  fit  too  well,"  he  ended ;  "  but  it 's  better  too 
big  'n  too  small." 

"  Yes;  and  thee  finds  room  beneath  it  for  the  stranger," 
added  Mr.  Bates,  as  they  entered. 

The  inside  of  the  one -room  cabin  was  clean  and  neat ; 
the  open  rafters  were  hung  with  strings  of  onions  and 
dried  herbs,  and  the  furniture  was  rough,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  a  high  four-posted  bed,  and  a  "huge  old-fashioned 
clock,  which  was  ticking  noisily. 

The  old  wife  received  the  wanderer  hospitably ;  her  life 
was  monotonous,  and  any  break  was  welcome.  The  supper 
she  provided  was  appetizing,  and  after  the  meal  ended,  the 
three  sat  over  the  blazing  fire  and  talked  together.  It 
seemed  that  Mr.  Bates  said  more  than  his  companions,  and 
yet  when  his  bed  of  "comforts  "  and  home-cured  feather 
pillows  was  made  up  near  the  fireplace,  and  they  separated 
for  the  night,  —  if  separation  it  could  be  called,  —  his 
hosts  still  knew  nothing  of  where  he  came  from  or  what 
was  his  destination. 

"What  is  thy  occupation?"  he  had  asked  Michael; 
and  under  the  kindly,  shrewd  questioning,  Michael  told  of 
the  mine  on  the  mountain-side,  which  he  knew  as  a 
mother  knows  her  child.  It  had  taken  him  his  lifetime  to 
learn  it ;  but  in  an  hour  the  mine  on  the  mountain-side,  in 
all  its  aspects,  was  Thomas  Bates's  also. 

"And  what  is  thy  faith?"  asked  the  guest.  ''And 
what  is  the  faith  of  the  miners  generally  ? " 

Michael  shook  his  head  ;  his  wife  answered,  — 

"The  day  after  to-morrow  will  be  the  Sabbath,  and 
you  might  ride  ten  miles  over  that  way  and  over  that, 


234  THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT. 

and  over  that  and  that,  and  hear  no  sound  of  the  gospel 
anywhere." 

Mr.  Bates  lowered  his  head  and  looked  at  her  over  his 
glasses. 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  he  said  slowly.  "  And  the  superin 
tendent  of  thy  mine  is  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian,  thee 
says,  Michael  Kelly ;  and  thee  has  not  even  a  Sabbath- 
school  for  the  little  ones  ?  " 

Michael  again  shook  his  head.  Mr.  Bates  sat  with  his' 
hands  on  his  knees,  gazing  thoughtfully  into  the  embers. 

"  Friend,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  hostess,  "  is  thee  not 
lonely  here  at  times,  with  the  Gospel  ten  miles  away,  and 
with  no  children  ?  Or  has  thee  children  elsewhere  ?  " 

The  woman  did  not  reply,  she  bent  over  her  knitting. 

"  My  wife  is  as  barren  as  these  hills,"  said  Michael, 
shortly. 

Mr.  Bates  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  silence,  his 
eyes  resting  kindly  on  the  primitive  mountain-woman, 
who  felt  her  reproach. 

"And  can  thee,  an  old  miner,  call  these  hills  barren, 
Michael  Kelly  !  "  he  said  finally.  "  Nothing  is  barren  that 
the  Lord  hath  made.  Mrs.  Kelly,  if  thee  will  shake  me 
up  a  bed  somewhere,  I  should  be  glad  to  rest,  I  think ;  I 
have  had  a  long  day." 

The  old  couple  were  soon  fast  asleep  in  the  high-posted 
bed,  but  their  guest  lay  wakeful  on  his  pallet.  The  noisy 
old  clock  in  the  corner,  aggressively  marking  the  moments, 
disturbed  his  unaccustomed  ears.  Tack -tick -tack  !  —  he 
could  hear  the  sweep  of  the  pendulum  in  the  stillness. 
For  a  time  he  bore  it  patiently,  but  at  last  he  would  watch 
with  it  no  longer ;  he  rose  softly,  crept  noiselessly  across 
the  floor  toward  the  clock-case,  turned  the  key  in  the  long, 


THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT.  235 

narrow  door,  and  opened  it.  The  old  clock  was  silent  for 
the  first  time  in  years  when  Mr.  Bates  lay  down  again. 
Almost  as  his  weary  head  touched  the  pillow  the  old 
woman  in  the  four-posted  bed  roused  with  a  start  and  sat 
up  listening,  her  neck  outstretched.  Mr.  Bates  could  hear 
her  scrambling  from  the  high  frame  to  the  floor ;  she  was 
talking  to  herself  as  she  groped  her  way  to  the  clock,  —  that 
regular  lullaby  of  years  could  not  cease  and  she  not  feel  it 
through  her  dreams. 

The  pendulum  swung  on  again,  and  she  scrambled  back 
into  her  bed  contented  ;  but  Mr.  Bates  lay  staring  up  into 
the  dim  rafters  with  sleepless  eyes.  He  gave  up  the  con 
test.  He  could  smell  the  aromatic  herbs  hanging  above 
him,  and  tried  to  give  to  each  its  name.  The  clock  worked 
on  drearily,  and  he  tossed  restlessly  as  he  heard  it. 

Presently  he  spoke  in  a  reproving  whisper :  "  Thomas, 
thee  is  wholly  losing  thy  serenity."  He  lay  still  then,  with 
his  hands  folded  quietly  on  his  breast.  "  Lord,  if  it  is  thy 
will  that  1  should  wake,  't  is  doubtless  for  a  purpose." 

The  next  morning  when  the  old  couple  roused,  the  only 
trace  of  their  late  guest  was  a  piece  of  silver  lying  on  the 
table.  Mr.  Bates  was  already  half-way  up  the  mountain 
side,  satchel  in  hand.  He  was  following  a  little  footpath 
which  led  from  the  old  miner's  door  upward ;  he  thought 
he  might  safely  trust  its  leading. 

As  he  mounted,  slowly  but  steadily,  he  looked  about 
him  thoughtfully,  and  at  last  paused  on  a  little  platform 
on  the  mountain-side,  —  a  kind  of  natural  clearing ;  from 
there  he  turned  and  looked  back  over  the  way  he  had 
come.  The  valley  and  river  lay  below,  and  on  the  farther 
shore  the  hills  rose  in  a  soft,  curving  line  like  a  green 
horseshoe. 


236  THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT. 

The  practical  eyes  followed  the  line  of  the  little  path 
on  the  mountain-side,  and  saw  how  a  road  cut  in  its  place 
might  be  as  a  key  to  the  valley  and  river,  and  lead  to  the 
site  where  he  stood.  He  examined  the  platform  carefully 
in  all  its  bearings,  and  stepped  it  off  east,  west,  north,  and 
south,  entering  the  records  in  his  note-book.  Then  turn 
ing  again  to  the  Horseshoe  Hills,  he  stood  watching  the 
birth  of  the  day.  The  sun,  coming  slowly  up  over  the 
centre  of  the  arch,  was  glorifying  the  hilltops;  but 
the  valley  below  still  held,  here  and  there,  clinging  white 
mists  on  its  green  sides.  The  air  was  full  of  the  fresh 
odours  of  the  moist  woods  and  of  the  morning. 

Thomas  Bates  stretched  out  his  hands  toward  the  hori 
zon.  "  Lord,  here  will  I  build  thee  a  tabernacle,"  he  said 
aloud. 

The  young  superintendent  of  the  mine  was  trimming 
the  vines  on  his  veranda  when  he  saw  a  strange  figure 
walking  up  the  road  toward  his  gate. 

As  the  superintendent  advanced,  the  stranger  spoke 
mildly:  "I  am  Thomas  Bates.  I  chanced  to  be  in  thy 
neighbourhood,  and  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  to  visit  the 
mine  before  returning  to  my  home." 

The  superintendent  flung  open  the  gate  quickly,  and 
took  the  satchel  from  Mr.  Bates's  hand.  "  Will  you  come 
in,  sir,  and  will  you  stay  with  us  for  a  time  ? "  he  said. 
"Have  you  breakfasted  yet,  Mr.  Bates?" 

"  I  have  not  breakfasted,  and  1  thank  thee  for  thy 
thoughtfulness.  This  mountain  air  opens  the  heart  as 
well  as  sharpens  the  appetite,  it  seems ;  1  have  met  with 
kindness  in  the  valley,  also." 

The  superintendent  installed  his  guest  in  the  parlour, 
and  sought  his  wife ;  he  found  her  in  the  nursery.  "  My 


THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT.  237 

dear,"  he  said,  "  let  the  children  shift  for  themselves.  Put 
on  your  apron,  and  get  up  a  royal  breakfast ;  the  owner  of 
the  mine  is  in  the  parlour." 

Before  the  day  ended  the  superintendent  was  a  very 
weary  man,  but  he  found  time  to  thank  his  God  that  he 
had  been  an  honest  one.  Had  there  been  a  dark  corner 
to  cover,  the  shaving  of  a  penny  to  hide,  he  knew  that 
those  shrewd  eyes  would  have  picked  out  the  fault 
unsparingly. 

As  Mr.  Bates  closed  the  last  ledger  opened  for  his  in 
spection,  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  pile  of  books,  and  looked 
musingly  into  his  superintendent's  face. 

"Friend,"  he  said,  "  1  find  my  mine  run  economically 
and  prudently.  I  find  thy  methods  wise  and  thy  books  in 
order.  Thee  has  in  some  cases  followed  thy  own  mind 
rather  than  instructions  sent  thee,  but  I  perceive  that  it  has 
been  well ;  and  the  man  who  is  able  to  separate  good 
advice  from  bad  stands  in  no  need  of  advising.  This  for 
the  material ;  and  now  what  is  the  prevailing  faith  among 
thy  miners  ? " 

The  superintendent  did  not  know.  "  That  had  not 
come  under  his  supervision,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Bates  gazed  out  of  the  office-window,  from  which 
he  could  see  a  part  of  the  curve  of  the  Horseshoe  Hills. 

"  It  may  be  as  well  to  discover  their  wishes,"  he  said. 
"  To-morrow  will  be  the  Sabbath ;  and  if  thee  will  give  it 
out  among  the  miners  to-night,  I  will  speak  to  them  on 
the  subject  in  the  afternoon.  I  presume  thee  will  be  willing 
to  lend  me  thy  rooms  in  which  to  meet  them." 

On  Sunday  afternoon,  from  the  mountains  piled  up  all 
around  and  from  the  valley  below,  the  people  came  pour 
ing  in  on  foot  and  in  carts. 


238  THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT. 

The  superintendent  was  standing  on  his  veranda  watch 
ing  their  approach,  when  Mr.  Bates  joined  him. 

"  Does  thee  think  that  moving  line  on  the  hillside  can 
be  the  miners  ?  "  asked  the  mine's  owner. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  answered  the  superintendent ;  "  but 
I  find  that  the  people  have  gained  a  false  impression  of 
your  calling  them  together.  They  think  there  is  to  be  a 
service  of  some  kind,  you  see,  and  they  are  drawing  in 
from  miles  around." 

Mr.  Bates  smiled.  "  Why  should  thee  be  sorry  ?  It 
is  not  what  I  anticipated,  but  we  will  meet  the  occasion  in 
some  manner;  the  Bible  is  ever  ready  at  hand,  and  thy 
wife  has  a  sweet  voice  in  singing.  1  heard  her  humming 
over  the  little  one's  cradle  this  morning.  But  I  find  that 
I  must  ask  a  favour  of  thee.  Will  thee  drive  me  over  to 
the  railroad  before  nightfall  ?  It  is  important  that  I  take 
the  early  train  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  spend  the  night 
with  the  station-master  there.  I  put  the  hour  of  leaving 
the  mine  in  thy  hands." 

Among  the  first  arrivals  were  Michael  Kelly  and  his 
wife;  they  stood  staring  at  Mr.  Bates,  recognizing  their 
late  guest. 

Mr.  Bates  received  them  warmly,  stretching  out  a  hand 
to  each.  "  Mrs.  Kelly,  thee  and  thy  husband  are  welcome 
as  old  friends,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  prophesy  that  the  Gospel 
shall  come  nearer  to  thy  dwelling  by  ten  miles." 

The  superintendent's  parlour  and  the  veranda  were 
crowded  with  men,  women,  and  children  when  Mr.  Bates 
rose  and  opened  the  meeting  with  prayer.  He  removed 
his  stiff  black  hat  and  set  it  carefully  on  the  chair  behind 
'him,  before  beginning  the  earnest  petition  for  help  and 
guidance. 


THOMAS   BATES'S  COVENANT.  239 

The  simple  service  consisted  of  alternate  readings  from 
the  Scriptures,  prayers,  and  familiar  hymns  led  by  the 
superintendent's  wife. 

Finally  Mr.  Bates  lifted  his  hat  from  the  chair  and 
replaced  it  on  his  head. 

"  Friends,"  he  said,  "  I  have  gathered  you  together  for 
the  purpose  of  consulting  with  you.  I  hold  in  my  hand 
a  list  of  the  various  Christian  denominations,  and  as  I  read 
from  it,  I  ask  that  those  who  belong  to  the  denomination 
called  will  raise  their  hands.  I  mention,  first,  the  Society 
of  Friends." 

A  withered  old  woman  at  the  back  of  the  room  held 
up  a  trembling  hand  alone.  Mr.  Bates  looked  over  his 
glasses  at  the  others,  but  none  moved. 

"Sister,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  am  glad  to  have  wor 
shipped  with  thee;  and  now  I  mention  Baptists." 

A  stray  hand  was  raised  here  and  there,  and  the  list 
went  on.  "  Methodists." 

From  every  side,  rising  like  a  flight  of  trained  pigeons 
at  a  given  word,  the  hands  flew  up. 

Mr.  Bates  folded  the  list  and  spoke,  — 

"  Friends,  I  perceive  that  the  Methodist  persuasion  is 
the  faith  most  acceptable.  There  has  been,  up  to  this 
time,  no  meeting-house  for  worship  in  the  community ; 
for  this  I  do  not  hold  you  responsible,  but  on  my  depar 
ture  I  will  confer  with  the  bishop  on  the  matter.  Provid 
ence  permitting,  there  will  be  erected,  at  an  early  day,  a 
suitable  and  substantial  building  for  worship  on  the  plat 
form  of  land  lying  between  Michael  Kelly's  cabin  and  the 
mine.  The  present  path  will  then  be  converted  into  a 
useful  roadway,  also  substantially  laid ;  and  both  are  for  an 
inheritance  for  your  children,  and  your  children's  children, 


240  THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT. 

and  your  children's  children's  children.  And  now  I  must 
not  keep  you  longer  from  your  homes ;  for  many  of  them 
are  distant,  and  the  night  will  be  falling,  and  I  too  have  a 
journey  before  me ;  but  before  we  separate,  let  us  sing 
once  more  together,— 

"  '  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way, 
His  wonders  to  perform.' " 

During  the  singing  the  superintendent  slipped  away, 
and  after  a  little  the  stable-boy  made  his  way  to  Mr. 
Bates's  side  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

Mr.  Bates  rose  and  followed  him  from  the  room. 

In  the  road  outside  stood  a  light  buggy,  and  harnessed 
in  it  was  the  joy  of  the  superintendent's  heart. 

He  was  himself  standing  at  the  restive  mare's  head, 
striving  to  subdue  her  vaulting  ambition  to  walk  on  two 
legs  as  her  master. 

"  1  am  afraid  1  must  ask  you  to  hurry  a  little,"  the 
superintendent  began  when  Mr.  Bates  appeared ;  but  the 
hint  was  unnecessary.  Before  he  ended  Mr.  Bates  was  in 
the  buggy,  his  hands  twisted  in  the  reins ;  his  brown  eyes 
were  twinkling  and  shining  behind  his  glasses  as  he 
looked  down  on  the  quivering  beautiful  back  between 
the  shafts. 

"  Thee  had  best  leap  in,  Friend,"  said  the  calm  voice  ;  "  I 
perceive  that  thy  mare  will  not  endure  much  foolishness." 

The  voices  in  the  parlour  died  away  before  the  last 
verse  of  the  hymn  ended.  The  singers  were  crowding  out 
on  the  veranda,  gaping  at  the  back  of  the  swaying  buggy 
and  the  two  figures  it  held.  The  shorter  figure  was  grasp 
ing  the  reins  in  one  strong  hand,  and  holding  the  brim  of 
his  stiff  black  hat  with  the  other. 


THOMAS  BATES'S  COVENANT.  241 

To-day  there  stands  on  the  platform  which  overlooks 
the  valley  and  the  Horseshoe  Hills  a  stone  church  where 
regular  services  are  held,  and  where  the  men,  women,  and 
children  from  the  mountain,  the  valley,  and  the  river  come 
through  rain  and  shine. 

There  is  a  roadway  for  them  to  follow,  which  was 
only  indicated  by  a  path  before.  And  far  down  in  the 
valley  stands  a  little  cabin  with  an  overgrown  roof,  be 
neath  which  a  noisy  clock  still  marks  the  moments 
wheezingly,  and  Michael  Kelly  tells  how  the  stone  church 
came  to  be  built  on  the  platform. 

1  know  them  all. 


16 


MISS    CHESILIA    MCCARTHY. 


Miss  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY. 


"/^OOD-MORNING,  ladies,  good -morning !"  said  the 
^-*  old  doctor,  baring  his  head  and  bowing  low  from 
his  buggy.  His  young  assistant,  who  was  seated  beside 
him,  raised  his  hat  and  looked  out  also,  but  saw  only  an 
old-fashioned  double  house,  set  back  from  the  street  corner, 
with  every  door  closed,  and  the  windows  sealed  by  green 
Venetian  blinds. 

"  To  whom  did  you  speak,  Dr.  Johnstone  ? "  he  asked. 
"  I  see  no  one." 

"  Nor  I ;  but  they  are  there,  nevertheless,  —  certainly 
one,  possibly  both.  I  always  speak  to  them  as  I  pass,— 
Miss  Chesilia  McCarthy  at  one  window,  and  Miss  Anne  at 
the  other.  I  mean  to  introduce  you  there  before  long. 
I  '11  take  the  reins  now  myself,  if  you  please ;  I  only 
wanted  to  watch  you  handle  the  sorrel.  I  never  know  a 
man  until  1  see  him  with  a  horse,  nor  a  woman  until  I  see 
her  with  a  man.  You  '11  do  ;  and  it 's  the  direct  kindness 
of  Providence  that  you  will.  I  was  as  nervous  about  you 
as  if  I  were  choosing  a  wife.  A  man  has  to  walk  as 
delicately  as  Agag  in  this  town." 

Dr.  Johnstone  was  in  high  good -humour ;  he  had 
written  to  a  professional  brother  to  send  him  a  crutch  in 
his  old  age,  and  Dr.  Jesse  Taylor  had  been  the  reply. 


246  MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY. 

Fortunately,  the  young  doctor  was  as  satisfied  as  the 
old  one ;  though  he,  too,  had  known  his  anxious  moments. 
He  doubted  the  reception  of  his  modern  methods  with 
these  primitive  minds ;  but  it  was  not  long  before  he  dis 
covered  that  he  had  only  one  man  to  please. 

Dr.  Johnstone  had  not  brought  all  the  rising  generation 
of  Belhaven  into  the  world,  and  their  parents  before  them, 
for  nothing;  from  this  vantage-ground  the  old  autocrat 
issued  his  orders,  and  Belhaven  would  as  soon  have  ques 
tioned  the  calling  of  Saint  Paul  to  the  apostleship  as  the 
ability  of  one  on  whom  the  seal  of  his  approval  was  set. 

Have  you  ever  seen  Belhaven,  with  its  Princess  Anne 
Street,  its  Royal  George  Street,  its  Duke  of  Gloucester 
Street,  and  its  old  houses  with  the  flavour  of  nobility  still 
clinging  about  them  in  this  land  of  democracy  ? 

Courtly  gentlemen  in  knee-breeches  and  lace  ruffles, 
and  gracious  ladies  with  their  high  heads  powdered,  rustling 
in  brocade  and  dainty  arrogance,  equally  versed  in  patch 
ing  their  pretty  proud  faces  and  the  household  linen,  in 
handling  the  fan  and  the  duster,  might  return  to  their 
homes  there  to-day  and  find  all  as  familiar  as  in  the  old 
colonial  times. 

Perhaps  the  mistake  lay  in  building  the  city  too  near 
the  sleepy  river,  and  the  lapping  water  hushed  it  into 
drowsiness.  However  it  may  have  happened,  Belhaven 
stands  a  completed  city,  and  is  a  village.  Commerce  has 
drifted  down  the  Potomac  and  blessed  a  rival. 

The  quaintness  resulting  from  the  individuality  of  a  city 
thus  stamping  the  inhabitants,  rather  than  the  inhabitants 
the  city,  tickled  Jesse  Taylor's  sense  of  humour,  and  the 
sweet,  old-fashioned  simplicity  delighted  his  heart. 

As  he  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  McCarthy  mansion  with 


MISS  CHESILIA   MCCARTHY.  247 

Dr.  Johnstone,  waiting  to  be  admitted  for  his  first  call,  he 
thought  that  he  had  never  seen  a  house  of  death  more 
jealously  closed  ;  yet  when  he  had  driven  past  alone  earlier 
in  the  day,  an  unaccountable  impulse  had  made  him  bow 
low  from  the  buggy,  after  the  manner  of  his  chief,  and  it 
had  seemed  to  him  that  two  shadowy  forms  behind  the 
green  Venetian  blinds  inclined  their  heads  in  answer.  There 
was  an  odd  decoration  on  the  McCarthy  steps.  Age  had 
separated  the  stone  slabs  from  each  other,  and  the  winds 
rushing  up  Princess  Anne  Street  from  the  river  had  blown 
earth  into  the  cracks  until  enough  soil  had  collected  to 
nourish  some  seeds  of  sweet  alyssum  which  a  vagrant 
breeze  fancied  planting  there.  From  this  small  beginning 
the  sweet  white  blossoms  had  taken  possession  of  the  old 
gray  steps,  spreading  and  spreading,  crack  by  crack,  fling 
ing  up  a  greeting  of  delicate  perfume  from  their  white 
heads  in  the  faces  of  those  who  stepped  over  them  to 
reach  the  door. 

Jesse  Taylor  was  deciding  that  he  had  never  seen  any 
thing  prettier  or  more  characteristic  of  Belhaven,  when  a 
face  at  an  open  window  of  the  house  on  the  opposite  cor 
ner,  far  prettier  than  any  head  of  sweet  alyssum,  caught 
his  eye.  Before  he  had  time  to  ask  his  companion  the 
question  which  was  on  his  lips,  the  door  of  the  McCarthy 
mansion  opened,  and  Dr.  Taylor  turned  to  see  Amanda, 
sole  remnant  of  the  McCarthy  retainers. 

"  How  are  the  ladies,  Amanda  ?  Are  they  at  home  ?  " 
asked  Dr.  Johnstone. 

A  mere  formula,  —  no  one  ever  found  the  ladies 
McCarthy  out ;  exercise  was  not  considered  necessary  in 
their  day.  Amanda  answered  only  the  first  question  as 
she  ushered  the  guests  into  the  parlour. 


248  MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY. 

"  Miss  Chesilia  she  ain'  so  well ;  she  dun  wash  de  bus' 
dis  mawnin',  ye'  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  Why  in  the  world  don't  you  do  it  for 
her,  Amanda  ? " 

"  Me  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  negress,  chuckling ;  "  when 
she  ain'  even  tressin'  Miss  Anne  to  tech  it !  She  don' 
skercely  tress  me  fur  to  stick  de  peens  in  de  peencushion, 
nohow,"  she  added,  as  she  limped  off. 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  square  parlour,  the  white- 
shrouded  furniture  seemed  to  Jesse  Taylor  as  ghosts  of 
departed  sofas  and  chairs.  He  had  time  only  to  glance 
about  him  before  Miss  Anne  McCarthy  entered.  She  was 
like  any  one  of  a  hundred  other  old  ladies;  but  Miss 
Chesilia,  who  followed  her  with  a  soft,  gliding  step,  the 
toe  touching  the  floor  first,  was  as  unique  as  a  bit  of 
cherished  porcelain. 

It  was  evident  that  she  was  Dr.  Johnstone's  favourite. 
He  held  her  hand  in  both  of  his  as  he  bade  her  good- 
morning,  calling  her  "  My  dear  .child."  His  hair  was 
white,  while  hers  was  only  gray,  and  still  curled  charmingly 
about  her  forehead  and  soft  blue  eyes.  She  had  the  eyes 
of  a  young  girl,  not  an  old  woman ;  and  they  were  the 
only  large  things  about  her,  for  she  was  of  fairy-like 
proportions. 

Dr.  Taylor  was  charmed  with  Miss  Chesilia,  but  he 
could  not  feel  that  his  visit  was  a  success  in  all  respects ; 
he  was  at  cross  purposes  all  through.  While  talking  with 
Miss  Anne  he  could  give  only  half  attention  ;  the  conver 
sation  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  was  more  interesting 
by  far. 

"You  know,  Dr.  Johnstone,  I  always  wash  dear  father's 
bust  on  his  birthday,"  Miss  Chesilia  was  saying  sadly, 


MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY.  249 

"  and  I  simply  prepare  to  feel  ill  afterwards ;  it  seems  so 
disrespectful.  And  to-day  he  looked  so  helpless,  and  oh  ! 
so  sad,  when  the  water  trickled  down  his  face  and  dripped 
off  the  end  of  his  nose  and  ran  into  his  ears,  1  said  out 
loud,  as  if  he  could  hear,  '  Forgive  me,  dear  father,  for 
give  me.' ' 

"I  know,"  answered  the  doctor,  gently,  —  "I  know. 
That 's  where  we  old  bachelors  lose,  my  dear  child  ;  when 
1  leave  this  world  somebody  may  take  my  bust  out  to 
the  hydrant  and  pump  on  it  or  slap  it  clean  with  a 
duster,  certainly  no  one  will  ever  wash  it  with  sacred 
tears." 

And  then  Dr.  Taylor,  forcing  himself  back  to  his  con 
versation  with  Miss  Anne,  asked  a  question  which  seemed 
to  him  innocent  enough. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  who  lives  in  the  opposite  house, 
Miss  McCarthy  ? " 

Miss  Anne  drew  herself  up,  and  glanced  across  the 
room  at  her  sister. 

Dr.  Johnstone  and  Miss  Chesilia  stopped  talking. 

"  The  man  who  lives  there,"  said  Miss  Anne,  frigidly, 
"is  named  Birch, — Thomas  Birch.  His  father  was  a 
butcher,  and  his  grandfather  also,  I  believe;  was  he  not, 
Dr.  Johnstone  ?  " 

The  old  doctor  was  knitting  his  brows.  "  Some  des 
perate  character  of  that  kind,  I  believe,  mem,"  he  answered 
shortly. 

His  lady  patients  knew  that  the  doctor  was  vexed  when 
he  called  them  "  mem ; "  but  Miss  Anne  went  on  agres- 
sively :  "  I  think  that  Thomas  Birch  himself  has  left  chops 
and  ribs  at  our  back  door  at  times." 

Dr.  Johnstone  was  about  to  retort ;  but  Miss  Chesilia's 


250  MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY. 

soft  tones,  softer  by  contrast,  broke  in.  "  Anne,  suppose 
you  bid  Amanda  bring  some  shrub  and  cake." 

Dr.  Johnstone's  brow  cleared.  He  loved  Miss  Chesilia, 
and  he  loved  shrub.  "  1  wish  Congress  over  there  wpuld 
pass  a  law  that  callers  should  always  be  offered  shrub  on 
a  hot  day,"  he  said. 

So  the  little  discomfort  passed,  and  the  visit  ended 
pleasantly.  But  Miss  Anne  looked  through  the  blinds  into 
the  street,  and  watched  the  two  doctors  walking  away 
together ;  and  it  was  not  of  them  that  she  was  thinking 
when  she  said  bitterly,— 

"  In  spite  of  all,  you  see,  they  are  on  the  crest  of  the 
wave,  Sister  Chesilia." 

Miss  Chesilia,  at  the  other  window,  glanced  across  at 
the  opposite  house.  "  No,  Anne,  no;  or  only  as  the  foam 
is,"  she  answered  firmly. 

Amanda,  who  was  hobbling  about  clearing  away  the 
remains  of  the  repast,  now  entered  into  the  conversation  as 
a  member  of  the  family,  also  in  metaphor. 

"  'Deed  now,  1  don'  know,  Miss  Chesilia ;  'pears  to  me 
like  skim  milk  do  git  to  rise  above  de  cream  in  dese  days. 
Fur  me,  I  ain'  believin'  in  people  what  ain'  people  a-settin' 
up  to  go  wid  people.  Rich  or  po',  1  don'  keer,  jes'  give 
me  de  fust  quality." 

"  That  will  do,  Amanda,"  said  Miss  Chesilia ;  but  she 
sighed  as  she  said  it.  The  house  across  the  way  was  very 
obvious  every  time  she  looked  from  the  window ;  and  a 
little  figure,  wonderfully  like  herself  in  past  years,  flitted 
in  and  out  perpetually.  Miss  Chesilia  loved  freshness  and 
youth,  and  she  turned  away  with  another  sigh. 

"  Chesilia  is  the  best  woman  in  the  world, — the  very 
best,"  Dr.  Johnstone  was  saying  as  he  walked  down  the 


MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY.  251 

street.  "  If  it  had  not  been  for  Anne's  nagging  and  that 
old  witch  Amanda,  I  could  have  stopped  this  nonsense 
about  the  opposite  house  long  ago.  1  don't  know  though," 
he  added  honestly  ;  " '  Dear  father '  has  more  influence  in 
his  grave  than  1  have  out  of  it.  You  would  think  that 
bust  a  human  being  to  hear  her  talk.  Well,  it  isn't  much 
harder  than  old  Dennis  McCarthy  showed  himself.  That 
blood  is  as  just  as  Aristides  and  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  He 
never  forgave  Sarah  to  the  day  of  his  death." 

"Does  Sarah  live  in  the  opposite  house?"  asked  Dr. 
Taylor,  with  interest. 

"No,  Sarah  went  to  her  rest  years  age  ;  not  before  she 
had  time  to  make  it  lively  for  her  family,  though." 

"  Then  who  does  live  there  ? " 

"Anne  told  you.  Thomas  Birch,  —  butcher's  boy. 
Sarah  ran  away  and  married  him,  when  she  found  she 
couldn't  manage  it  in  any  other  way.  He  was  clever 
enough ;  I  always  liked  the  man.  He  struck  out  from 
here  early,  studied  law,  and  made  money,  —  plenty  of  it. 
Sarah  met  him  somehow  when  he  came  home  for  a  visit, 
and  he  took  her  away  with  him  as  Mrs.  Birch.  It 
would  n't  have  been  so  bad  if  he  had  belonged  to  another 
city ;  Anne  can't  forget  those  chops  and  ribs  at  the  back 
door.  It  was  pretty  hard  on  the  McCarthys,  and  particu 
larly  so  when  he  came  back  here  to  end  his  days  after 
Sarah  died.  Amanda  belonged  to  Sarah  through  an  in 
heritance  which  Dennis  McCarthy  couldn't  cut  off;  but 
her  mistress  died  and  the  slaves  were  freed,  and  Amanda 
came  hobbling  here  to  her  old  home  and  genteel  poverty 
as  fast  as  she  could  come.  Tom  Birch  would  have  given 
his  eyes  to  keep  her.  When  you  taste  her  fried  chicken 
and  mush,  you  '11  see  why.  But  it  was  no  use,  back  she 


252  MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY. 

came.  There  was  something  fine  in  that  though.  With 
all  his  faults  there  is  nothing  shoddy  about  the  negro ;  so 
the  three  old  ladies  live  together,  happily  enough.  Now 
you  know  the  whole  story." 

"  It  was  not  Thomas  Birch  I  saw  at  the  window,"  said 
Dr.  Taylor ;  "  unless  Thomas  Birch  is  as  slim  as  a  peach 
switch  in  the  fall,  and  as  pretty  as  one  in  the  spring." 

The  old  doctor  laughed.  "  Ah,  no,  that  was  n't  Tom; 
that  must  have  been  Chessy.  Sarah  named  her  for 
Chesilia,  as  an  olive  branch ;  but  olives  were  a  taste  not  to 
be  acquired  by  the  McCarthy  family.  It  was  a  sad  affair, 
very  sad;  and  the  results  have  been  unfortunate  all 
around." 

"  Except  Chessy,"  amended  Dr.  Taylor ;  "  I  would  n't 
call  Chessy  an  unfortunate  result." 

"  Well,  she  has  not  had  an  easy  time,  either,  poor  child. 
People  here  have  taken  her  up  decidedly,  but  not  those 
who  ought  to  be  most  to  her.  I  am  taking  you  there  now, 
by  the  way.  Thank  Heaven  only  the  side  of  the  house 
faces  the  McCarthy  mansion !  The  front  door  opens  on 
Royal  George  Street,  around  the  corner.  1  should  n't  like 
to  think  that  Chesilia  was  watching  me  every  time  I 
mounted  these  steps." 

Thus  introduced  from  house  to  house,  it  was  not  long 
before  Jesse  Taylor's  figure  was  as  familiar  in  the  streets 
of  Belhaven  and  at  the  bedsides  of  the  inhabitants  as  Dr. 
Johnstone's.  The  summer  passed  away  peacefully,  one 
day  telling  another,  with  about  the  usual  average  of  sick 
ness  and  death  ;  and  then  came  the  winter,  and  with  it 
"  la  grippe." 

At  first  the  good  people  of  Belhaven  laughed  over 
the  epidemic,  and  said  that  Belhaven  was  in  the  height 


MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY.  253 

of  the  fashion  at  last ;  but  after  a  little  they  stopped 
laughing. 

The  population  was  largely  made  up  of  those  whose 
sands  were  nearly  run ;  and  to  these  came  this  new  scourge, 
giving  the  hour-glass  a  jostle,  and  spilling  the  grains  of 
time  which  might  have  flowed  on  smoothly  and  usefully 
for  a  few  years  yet. 

Among  the  first  victims  was  old  Dr.  Johnstone;  and 
Jesse  Taylor  found  himself  called  to  the  difficult  post  of 
adjusting  an  honoured  prophet's  mantle.  And  yet  he  was 
not  called  on  suddenly.  In  the  time  given  him  he  had 
learned  many  of  the  old  doctor's  methods,  and  acquired 
many  of  his  habits ;  among  others  that  of  considering  the 
ladies  McCarthy,  and  particularly  Miss  Chesilia,  as  under 
his  special  charge,  —  and  thanking  Heaven  that  the  house 
opposite  opened  around  the  corner. 

Soon  passing  the  footing  of  a  parlour  guest  in  the 
McCarthy  mansion,  it  had  become  Dr.  Taylor's  custom  to 
open  the  great  front  door  —  a  locked  door  was  an  un 
known  idea  in  Belhaven  —  and  walk  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairway,  calling  up  to  "the  ladies"  for  permission  to 
ascend  to  the  cosey  sitting-room  above,  knowing  as  he  did 
so  that  no  announcement  was  needed,  —  they  had  already 
seen  his  approach  through  the  green  Venetian  blinds. 

In  that  sitting-room  the  numerous  histories  of  the 
McCarthy  family  were  gradually  unfolded  to  him ;  and 
here  also  the  holy  of  holies  was  finally  opened  for  his 
inspection,  —  Miss  Chesilia's  tin  box. 

Dr.  Taylor  was  familiar  with  the  lives  of  most  of  those 
whose  faded  writing  he  was  to  see  ;  but  when  Miss  Chesilia 
lifted  the  lid  of  the  case  he  felt  that  he  was  going  through 
a  species  of  solemn  initiation. 


254  MISS  CHESILIA   MCCARTHY. 

Among  the  family  documents  were  sedate  and  friendly 
letters  from  "young  Colonel  Washington,"  and  others  of 
later  date  and  greater  formality,  bidding  Dennis  McCarthy 
to  dinners  of  state  at  Mount  Vernon.  But  prized  above 
all  was  a  worm-eaten  silhouette  of  General  Washington, 
"  which  he  presented  to  my  dear  father  with  his  own 
hands,"  said  Miss  Chesilia. 

"But,  dear  Miss  Chesilia,  don't  you  think  that  you 
really  owe  these  to  the  Mount  Vernon  collection  ? "  Dr. 
Taylor  ventured  to  ask.  "  They  seem  to  me  to  belong  to 
the  country  at  large." 

Miss  Chesilia  agreed  with  him ;  he  was  quite  right,  of 
course.  Undoubtedly  she  was  selfish  in  keeping  them 
locked  up  in  an  old  cracker-box  in  her  wardrobe  when 
they  might  do  good  to  so  many.  And  then  she  gathered 
the  treasures  together,  and  hid  them  away  in  the  box, 
where  Dr.  Taylor  knew  they  would  continue  to  remain 
during  her  life,  at  least. 

With  much  hesitation  and  some  faded  blushes  Miss 
Chesilia  pointed  out  to  him  also  a  spot  on  her  soft 
cheek  which  had  been  pressed  by  the  lips  of  Lafayette 
when  he  visited  Belhaven  in  the  year  '24. 

"  1  was  only  a  little  girl,"  Miss  Chesilia  hastened  to 
explain ;  "  but  I  remember  the  general  passed  up  the  street 
under  a  great  arch  and  through  a  line  of  troops  on  King 
Street.  One  hundred  young  girls  and  one  hundred  boys 
lined  the  way  on  either  side  when  he  reached  Royal 
George  Street.  The  females  were  dressed  in  white  with 
blue  sashes  and  badges,  and  leghorn  hats,  and  the  boys  in 
blue  with  pink  sashes  and  badges.  They  were  strewing 
flowers  before  him.  My  dear  father  always  said  that  in 
sublimity  and  moral  effect  that  ceremony  surpassed  all. 


MISS  CHESILIA   MCCARTHY.  255 

It  was  then  that  they  led  me  forward,  and  bade  me  repeat 
some  lines  composed  for  the  occasion.  I  can  recall  them 
now  if  you  would  care  to  hear  them. 

'"  Fayette,  friend  of  Washington  ! 

Freedom's  children  greet  thee  here. 
Fame  for  thee  our  hearts  have  won ; 

Flows  for  thee  the  grateful  tear. 
Loved  and  honoured  nation's  guest, 

Long  with  us  mayst  thou  remain; 
Leave  us  when  thou  sink'st  to  rest, 

Life  eternal  to  obtain. 

CHORUS. 

' '  Happiness  to-day  is  ours. 
Strew,  ye  fair,  his  way  with  flowers  ! '  * 

My  dear  father  said  that  General  Lafayette  seemed  much 
affected.  As  I  ended,  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  gave  me 
a  most  affectionate  kiss  just  here." 

And  Miss  Chesilia  blushed  again  as  she  laid  her  dainty 
forefinger  on  the  spot,  looking  so  prettily  conscious  that 
Dr.  Taylor  longed  to  follow  the  illustrious  general's  ex 
ample.  He  was  as  fond  of  Miss  Chesilia  as  the  old  doctor 
had  been ;  and  as  time  went  on  he  grew  to  feel  that  his 
day  had  not  ended  properly  without  a  visit  to  her  crowded 
in  somewhere. 

With  the  increase  of  the  epidemic,  visits  of  pleasure 
had  to  be  dropped.  Dr.  Taylor  had  not  seen  Miss  Chesilia 
for  a  week,  when  he  received  a  note  from  her  one  day 
asking  that  he  would  call  as  soon  as  convenient.  He 
hurried  to  the  house  anxiously,  certain  of  finding  her 

*  This  poem  and  the  description  of  Lafayette's  visit  are  taken 
from  records  of  the  time. 


256  MISS  CHESIL1A  MCCARTHY. 

struck  down  also ;  but  she  received  him  in  her  sitting-room, 
where  she  was  sewing  in  her  usual  chair  by  the  window, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  white  bust  of  old  Dennis  McCarthy. 

Dr.  Taylor  thought  she  seemed  nervous,  and  fancied 
that  he  caught  a  troubled,  almost  frightened  look  in  her 
eyes,  yet  he  did  not  think  her  looking  ill.  As  she  did  not 
speak  of  her  note,  he  would  not  hurry  her;  he  began 
instead  to  praise  the  patrician  features  of  the  marble  bust, 
—  this  he  knew  always  gave  her  pleasure.  Miss  Chesilia's 
face  brightened  ;  she  could  talk  for  hours  of  "  dear  father." 

Dr.  Taylor  sat  patiently  listening  to  her  memories  of 
her  father's  honourable  pride  and  his  strict  probity.  But 
he  could  not  have  been  sent  for  to  hear  this ! 

Then  Miss  Chesilia  inquired  very  particularly  about  Dr. 
Taylor's  patients,  or  as  particularly  as  he  would  permit,  — 
for  Dr.  Taylor  differed  from  Dr.  Johnstone  in  this  respect. 
The  old  doctor  decided  for  himself  as  to  how  much  of  his 
patients'  affairs  was  confidential,  —  and  woe  to  him  who 
complained !  —  but  the  young  doctor  repeated  nothing  of 
any  kind.  It  happened  that  his  most  critical  case  at  the 
time  was  that  of  an  old  gentleman  named  Ramsay,  —  Col. 
William  Ramsay,  —  and  when  Miss  Chesilia  finally  asked 
for  him  by  name,  Dr.  Taylor  was  obliged  to  say  that  the 
colonel  was  a  very  ill  man  ;  and  then  he  rose  to  go,  in 
the  hope  of  bringing  Miss  Chesilia  to  the  point.  Unques 
tionably  he  had  not  been  sent  for  to  discuss  his  practice. 

Miss  Chesilia  rose  also,  laying  a  shaking  hand  in  his, 
detaining  him  a  moment  to  know  "  if  there  were  many 
deaths."  She  seemed  also  about  to  call  him  back  from 
the  threshold,  and  then  to  change  her  mind.  She  did  not 
refer  to  her  note  in  any  way ;  and  as  Dr.  Taylor  left  the 
house  and  walked  down  the  gray  stone  steps,  where  the 


MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY.  257 

white  snow  had  taken  the  place  of  the  white  sweet  alyssum, 
he  was  thoroughly  perplexed.  But  that  Miss  Chesilia  had 
needed  him,  for  some  reason  which  she  was  not  ready  to 
give,  he  was  sure,  and  he  determined  she  should  not  need 
in  vain  ;  as  yet,  he  could  go  no  further. 

He  looked  over  at  the  house  opposite,  and  thought, 
regretfully  and  tenderly,  of  all  that  one  of  its  inmates 
might  be  to  her,  could  they  be  brought  together ;  but  as 
that  was  impossible,  he  turned  to  what  had  helped  him 
more  than  once  when  perplexed.  He  tried  to  put  Dr. 
Johnstone  in  his  place,  and  to  act  as  he  might  have  acted. 

The  result  was  that,  in  spite  of  his  press  of  work,  Dr. 
Taylor  paid  a  daily  visit  to  the  McCarthy  mansion.  Miss 
Chesilia  accepted  these  visits  with  a  pathetic  if  silent 
gratitude.  She  was  restless  and  flurried  in  manner,  and 
asked  so  many  nervous  questions  about  the  condition  of 
his  "grippe"  patients, and  particularly  of  Colonel  Ramsay, 
that  Dr.  Taylor  feared  she  was  laying  herself  open  to  the 
contagion  through  pure  fear. 

Still  he  would  not  force  her  confidence,  and  it  was  only 
when  he  saw  that  her  secret,  whatever  it  might  be,  was 
telling  on  her  strength,  that  he  determined  to  speak  him 
self.  On  his  next  visit,  therefore,  he  drew  his  chair  close 
by  Miss  Chesilia's  side,  and  asked  her  to  shut  her  eyes  and 
imagine  him  her  old  friend  and  physician  come  to  visit 
her  once  more. 

Miss  Chesilia  looked  up  quickly,  but  seeing  that,  al 
though  half  laughing,  he  was  really  in  earnest,  she  dropped 
her  lids  obediently,  and  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with  her 
hands  clasped  closely  in  her  lap.  Dr.  Taylor  could  see 
that  they  trembled.  He  took  them  both,  clasped  as  they 
were,  in  one  of  his. 

17 


258  MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY. 

"  Now,  if  I  were  really  your  old  friend,  and  not  merely 
his  messenger,  Miss  Chesilia,'-'  he  said,  "  this  is  what  1 
would  be  saying :  '  My  dear  child,  you  are  not  treating  me 
quite  fairly.  1  am  your  physician  and  your  old  friend, 
but  what  can  1  do  when  you  conceal  your  symptoms  from 
me?  —  for  that  is  what  you  are  doing  when  you  have 
something  preying  on  your  mind  and  refuse  to  tell  me 
of  it.'" 

Miss  Chesilia  caught  her  hands  from  his  and  threw 
them  up  to  her  face. 

"  Oh,  I  never  meant  it,  —  I  never  meant  it.  Every 
year  for  the  last  twenty  years  I  thought  he  would  come 
back  and  let  me  tell  him  so,  and  now  he  can  never  come 
back ;  he  is  going  to  die,  and  he  will  never  know.  1 
had  been  sending  him  away  for  twelve  years,  and  it 
never  made  any  difference;  he  would  ask  me  again  the 
next  year  just  the  same,  and  then  I  would  say  no,  and 
when  he  left  I  would  follow  him  to  the  door  and  say, 
'  Colonel  Ramsay,  call  again/  and  it  seemed  to  make 
everything  all  right.  And  then  one  night  —  I  never  knew 
how  it  happened  — -  Anne  called  me,  or  Amanda  was  com 
ing  up  the  stair ;  but  when  1  followed  him  to  the  door  I 
forgot  to  say  anything,  and  he  closed  the  door  and  went 
out  forever  and  ever.  I  knew  just  how  he  felt ;  1  under 
stood  him  so  well.  He  would  have  come  and  come  until 
to-day  if  he  thought  1  wished  it,  but  he  would  have  died 
rather  than  intrude  ;  and  now  he  will  never  know." 

Miss  Chesilia  sat  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  and 
Jesse  Taylor  sat  beside  her  in  silence. 

This,  then,  was  her  secret.  If  he  were  smiling  a  little, 
it  was  because  he  could  not  help  it,  and  there  was  no 
unkindness  in  the  smile.  He  was  thinking  of  the  lovely 


MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY.  259 

wife  and  mother  she  might  have  made,  and  of  the  sun 
shine  she  would  have  brought  into  the  home  of  the  gaunt, 
lonely  man  now  lying  silent  and  uncomplaining,  nursed 
by  hirelings.  He  could  imagine  what  manner  of  man 
Colonel  Ramsay  had  been  in  his  youth.  Now,  the  ruin  of 
a  Southern  gentleman;  then,  stately  and  chivalrous, -- a 
little  stilted,  perhaps.  Yes,  he  would  have  died  rather 
than  intrude. 

And  Miss  Chesilia,  as  charming  and  fresh  and  dainty 
as  her  opposite  neighbour,  tripping  out  of  the  square  par 
lour  after  him,  and  following  him  to  the  door:  "  Colonel 
Ramsay,  call  again." 

Dr.  Taylor  smiled  irrepressibly ;  he  could  see  the  whole 
picture.  "  But  could  you  not  have  let  him  know,  Miss 
Chesilia  ?  "  he  asked. 

Miss  Chesilia  flushed  as  delicately  as  ever  in  her  youth. 
She  dried  her  eyes  daintily ;  ladies  were  trained  even  to 
weep  gracefully  in  her  day.  "  It  would  not  have  been 
maidenly;  he  would  not  have  understood,"  she  whispered. 

She  went  on,  with  more  composure :  "  It  was  very  hard 
for  some  years ;  and  to-day  it  seems  as  if  that  time  had 
all  come  back.  We  have  never  met  since,  except  on  the 
street ;  he  would  not  annoy  me.  After  a  time  I  grew 
quite  ill;  that  is,  I  was  nervous  and  irritable.  At  first  I 
thought  it  must  be  malaria,  and  I  took  quinine  for  it ;  and 
then,  quite  suddenly,  one  day  I  knew  that  it  was  nothing 
of  the  kind :  it  was  only  that  I  had  grown  into  an  old 
maid.  That  explained  everything,  you  know,  and  I 
stopped  worrying  and  was  quite  quiet  again  until  now ; 
but  now  it  has  all  come  back.  It  hurts  me  so  to  think 
that  he  will  never  know  how  it  was." 

Happily,  in  the  relief  of  unburdening  her  heart,  where 


260  MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY. 

she  had  been  for  twenty  years  spinning  over  and  over  the 
romance  of  her  life  as  a  spider  spins  its  web  from  itself, 
Miss  Chesilia  missed  nothing  in  her  listener's  silence,  nor 
noted  his  abstraction  as  he  left  her. 

His  thoughts  had  flown  to  the  opposite  house ;  he  was 
thinking  again  how  some  one  there  would  know  what 
to  say  to  her  and  how  to  comfort  her.  This  conviction 
strengthened  with  him  as  the  days  went  by  and  Miss 
Chesilia  grew  weaker;  for  she  was  weakening  visibly, 
from  no  apparent  cause,  unless  the  depressing  bulletins  of 
Colonel  Ramsay's  condition  might  account  for  it.  She 
rarely  left  her  sofa  now,  and  Dr.  Taylor  was  far  from 
satisfied  with  the  nursing  she  received.  Miss  Anne  was 
too  nervous  herself  to  be  of  use;  and  Amanda  did  not 
understand  the  case,  and  so  did  not  believe  in  it. 

The  weather  also  was  unfavourable,  —  a  heated  term, 
such  as  the  South  can  offer  in  midwinter,  warm,  damp, 
and  enervating,  winding  up  in  that  uncanny  phenomenon, 
a  winter  thunder-storm.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  its  tumult 
of  wind  and  rain  and  thunder  that  Dr.  Taylor  came  to  the 
McCarthy  mansion  and  first  saw  a  way  to  the  end  he  had 
in  view. 

He  found  Miss  Chesilia  lying  on  her  sofa  alone,  weeping 
weakly.  In  answer  to  his  indignant  inquiries  for  the  rest 
of  the  household  she  sobbed  out  that  she  herself  had  sent 
them  away. 

"  Amanda  broke  off  a  large  piece  of  a  needle  in  her 
head  when  she  was  quite  a  child,  Dr.  Taylor,  and  it  pains 
her  terribly  in  thunder-storms  unless  she  sits  in  the  cellar ; 
and  Anne  was  so  frightened  I  had  to  send  her  in  to  our 
next-door  neighbour.  She  is  a  married  woman,  you 
know." 


MISS  CHES1LIA   MCCARTHY.  261 

Dr.  Taylor  laughed  before  it  was  possible  to  prevent  it. 
"  Why,  Miss  Chesilia,  does  being  married  act  as  a 
lightning-rod?"  he  asked. 

Miss  Chesilia  did  not  think  that  exactly  ;  she  could  n't 
explain  why  it  gave  a  sense  of  security,  yet  she  could  n't 
help  feeling  that  it  did. 

Dr.  Taylor  laughed  again  ;  but  at  the  same  moment  an 
inspiration  seized  him.  "  Miss  Chesilia,"  he  said,  "  would 
there  be  the  same  protection  in  a  person  engaged  to  be 
married  ?  "  He  paused  with  a  significant  embarrassment ; 
but  no  more  was  necessary. 

Miss  Chesilia  was  a  true  woman.  The  thunder  was 
still  growling  and  muttering  overhead,  and  she  was  terribly 
afraid  of  it ;  but  she  sat  up,  clasping  her  two  little  hands 
together. 

"  Dr.  Taylor,  who  is  it  ?  " 

Dr.  Taylor  grew  grave  at  once.  "You  do  not  know 
her,  and  she  is  not  a  Belhaven  girl,  Miss  Chesilia ;  that  is 
all  1  can  tell  you  as  yet.  1  must  ask  you  to  trust  to  my 
having  chosen  wisely ;  and,  then,  dear  Miss  Chesilia,  I 
want  to  ask  a  favour  of  you,  but  it  is  so  presumptuous 
1  really  do  not  dare." 

After  many  assurances  and  much  encouragement  he  did 
dare,  however ;  and  a  letter  was  finally  written,  in  Miss 
Chesilia's  fine,  shadowy  hand-writing,  which  began,  "  My 
dear  Unknown,"  and  contained  an  urgent  invitation  to  the 
McCarthy  mansion  "  for  so  long  a  time  as  the  dear  Un 
known  would  spare  to  an  old  woman." 

"  And  you  will  promise  to  love  her  a  little  for  my  sake, 
Miss  Chesilia  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Taylor,  as  he  dropped  the  letter 
safely  in  his  pocket. 

Miss  Chesilia  could  not  promise  too  solemnly,  or  show 


262  MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY. 

too  much  confidence.  "  Do  not  tell  me  her  name,  my 
dear,  nor  even  of  her  home,"  she  ended.  "  That  you  care 
for  her  is  enough ;  I  love  her  already." 

When  Miss  Anne  and  Amanda  returned  from  their 
respective  hiding-places,  it  was  to  find  Miss  Chesilia  no 
stronger  in  body,  but  buoyed  up  by  the  possession  of  a 
secret  which  they  did  not  share.  She  would  only  tell 
them  that  a  mysterious  guest  was  to  arrive  the  next  day, 
and  that  the  best  bedroom  and  the  fat  of  the  land  were 
to  be  in  readiness  for  the  advent.  She  insisted  also  on 
receiving  the'  expected  stranger  alone,  and  when  the 
appointed  hour  arrived  lay  on  her  sofa  waiting  with 
nervous  impatience. 

But  when  she  heard  Dr.  Taylor's  step  on  the  stair  it  was 
almost  too  much ;  Miss  Chesilia  sat  up,  clasping  her  hands 
together,  and  burst  into  tears  of  excitement.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  door,  meantime,  Dr,  Taylor  -was  striving  by 
every  art  to  put  courage  into  a  poor  little  heart,  fluttering 
even  more  than  Miss  Chesilia's. 

At  last  the  separating  door  swung  open;  and  Miss 
Chesilia  saw  dimly  that  Dr.  Taylor  was  urging  a  little 
figure  forward  until  it  had  crossed  the  room  and  was 
kneeling  timidly  by  the  sofa. 

Miss  Chesilia  wiped  away  her  tears,  and  held  out 
her  arms,  only  to  drop  them  again.  It  was  Chessy 
Birch,  who  was  looking  up  into  her  face  with  appealing 
eyes. 

Miss  Chesilia  rose  from  her  sofa,  and  stood  erect  and 
stiff,  the  colour  mounting  to  her  faded  cheeks.  She  looked 
at  Dr.  Taylor;  but  he  turned  from  her  and  lifted  the 
trembling  girl  left  kneeling  alone  before  replying  to  the 
unspoken  question. 


MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY.  26} 

"This  is  my  future  wife,  Miss  Chesilia;  and  you  have 
promised  me  to  be  good  to  her." 

Miss  Chesilia  hesitated  ;  it  was  for  a  moment  only. 
"  Dr.  Taylor,"  she  said  with  grave  dignity,  "  you  are  right 
to  remind  me.  1  might  say  that  you  should  have  been 
more  open  with  me ;  but  I  have  given  you  the  word  of 
a  McCarthy,  and  the  word  of  a  McCarthy  shall  not  be 
broken.  My  dear  Dr.  Taylor's  wife  is  very  welcome  here." 

But  Chessy  did  not  take  the  offered  hand.  She  with 
drew  from  her  lover's  arm,  and  her  girlish  figure  was  as 
erect  and  stately  as  her  aunt's.  Her  blue  eyes  met  Miss 
Chesilia's  steadily ;  there  was  an  answering  flush  on  her 
cheeks.  Was  it  the  old  McCarthy  blood  rising  there  also  ? 

"  Aunt  McCarthy,  1  am  not  Dr.  Taylor's  wife,  and  I  am 
your  sister  Sarah's  child." 

Miss  Chesilia  started.  The  slight  figure,  the  blue  eyes, 
the  softly  rounded  lips  and  chin,  had  all  appeared  to  her  as 
the  embodiment  of  her  own  youth  come  back  in  a  vision. 
But  although  the  hands  might  be  the  hands  of  Esau,  the 
voice  was  the  voice  of  Jacob ;  not  thus  had  her  lips  ever 
ventured  to  speak  in  her  gentle  youth.  She  glanced  across 
the  room  at  the  proud  marble  features  of  old  Dennis 
McCarthy;  it  was  his  voice  speaking  in  his  daughter's 
child. 

In  the  long  silence  Dr.  Taylor  was  considering  how  best 
to  retrace  the  false  step  he  had  taken,  when  a  crash  of 
falling  glass  broke  the  painful  stillness. 

In  the  doorway  stood  Amanda,  with  an  empty  tray  in 
her  hand ;  the  refreshments  it  had  held  lay  on  the  floor, 
and  her  rolling  eyes  stared  over  the  wreck  at  the  amazing 
sight  of  Chessy  Birch  in  Miss  Chesilia's  own  sitting-room. 
Behind  Amanda  stood  Miss  Anne,  also  rooted  to  the  floor. 


264  MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY. 

Miss  Chesilia  stepped  forward ;  there  was  decision  in 
the  movement.  She  laid  her  hand  on  the  young  girl's 
shoulder. 

"  Amanda,  this  is  your  old  master's  own  grandchild ; 
our  dear  niece,  Anne,  and  Dr.  Taylor's  promised  wife." 

It  was  an  accomplished  fact.  The  news  ran  like  wild 
fire  through  Belhaven  ;  the  ladies  McCarthy  had  acknowl 
edged  Chessy  Birch,  and  Thomas  Birch  had  once  more 
called  at  the  McCarthy  mansion,  —  but  it  was  up  the  gray 
stone  steps  and  through  the  great  front  door  this  time. 
The  McCarthys  did  nothing  by  halves.  From  day  to  day 
Dr.  Taylor  could  see  that  Miss  Chesilia  leaned  more  and 
more  on  the  strong  young  nature  so  ready  to  be  her  sup 
port  ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  discovered  also  that 
Miss  Chesilia  had  selected  a  second  confidante.  One 
night  as  he  walked  down  the  dim  hallway  Chessy's  light 
figure  fluttered  out  from  the  square  parlour,  and  followed 
him  to  the  door.  The  light  of  the  candle  she  held  in  her 
lifted  hand  fell  on  her  mischievously  solemn  face  and 
laughing  eyes.  As  she  reached  his  side,  she  paused  to 
speak  with  the  grave  deliberation  of  a  past  generation,  — 
"  Dr.  Taylor,  call  again." 

Dr.  Taylor,  turning  with  a  smothered  laugh,  caught 
the  candle  from  her  hand,  and  set  it  on  the  nearest  table, 
replying  as  that  faithful,  modest  lover  should  have  replied 
to  his  mistress  on  the  same  spot  twenty  years  before. 

It  appeared  that  Miss  Chesilia  had  concealed  nothing 
from  either  confidant,  and  they  talked  it  all  over  in  whis 
pers  by  the  light  of  the  tallow  dip,  laughing  a  little,  but 
deciding  that  there  was  nothing  ridiculous  in  it,  nothing 
ridiculous  at  all ;  the  newness  of  their  own  love  story 
made  them  tender  of  others.  Before  the  consultation 


MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY.  265 

ended,  they  had  reached  two  conclusions  :  first,  Miss 
Chesilia  and  Colonel  Ramsay  must  be  brought  together 
in  some  way ;  and  second,  that  when  the  sweet  alyssum 
bloomed  out  again  on  the  old  gray  steps,  Chessy  should 
pass  out  over  it  in  a  gown  as  white  as  the  blossoms. 

To  plan  for  the  meeting  of  two  lovers  when  one  is 
nearing  threescore  years,  and  the  other  has  long  passed 
that  sum,  is  not  always  easy ;  and  before  another  week 
Dr.  Taylor  came  to  fear  that  the  feet  of  these  two  faithful 
lovers  were  set  in  a  road  which  was  to  lead  them  together, 
but  in  another  land. 

Colonel  Ramsay  grew  weaker  daily,  and  Miss  Chesilia 
had  soon  to  be  moved  from  her  sofa  to  her  bed ;  for  as 
his  strength  ebbed  away,  it  seemed  to  draw  hers  after  it. 
It  was  useless  to  attempt  concealing  Colonel  Ramsay's 
condition ;  by  some  mysterious  means,  Miss  Chesilia  was 
always  able  to  divine  the  truth,  and  sank  as  he  sank. 

Jesse  Taylor  almost  believed  that  these  two  faithful 
souls,  half  loosened  from  the  frail  earthly  tenements  that 
held  them  apart,  met  together  in  the  dim  border-land 
between  life  and  death,  and  held  communion  there. 

"Chesilia"  was  the  name  ever  on  Colonel  Ramsay's 
wandering  lips,  as  was  his  on  hers ;  only  the  added  burden 
of  her  half -conscious  cry  was,  "  He  will  never  know." 

Chessy  was  sitting  by  her  aunt's  bedside,  listening  to 
this  plaintive  repetition,  when  Dr.  Taylor  at  last  brought 
her  the  whispered  news  that  in  another  hour  the  colonel 
would  know  all  the  secrets  that  death  could  teach  him. 

Chessy  listened  gravely ;  and,  as  he  ended,  rose  from 
her  chair,  signalling  to  him  to  take  her  place.  She  bent 
tenderly  over  the  restless  figure  in  the  bed  for  a  moment, 
and  then  left  the  room. 


266  MISS  CHES1LIA  MCCARTHY. 

Dr.  Taylor  had  time  to  wonder  at  her  tarrying  away  so 
long,  when  she  returned,  dressed  in  hat  and  cloak.  As  he 
looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  he  saw  that  there  were 
signs  of  recent  tears  on  her  face. 

She  moved  close  to  the  bedside,  and  spoke  clearly  and 
slowly :  "  Aunt  Chesilia,  Colonel  Ramsay  knows." 

Miss  Chesilia  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  up  wonder- 
ingly. 

Chessy  went  on :  "He  was  restless  and  fevered  as  you 
are,  and  was  calling  for  you  over  and  over ;  but  so  soon 
as  I  came  in  he  knew  me  quite  well,  and  called  me  by 
name,  — '  Chesilia  —  Chesilia  McCarthy,'  —  for  that  was 
who  I  was  then,  you  know,  Aunt  Chesilia.  And  I  knelt 
down  by  him  just  as  I  am  kneeling  by  you,  and  I  took  his 
hand  just  as  I  am  taking  yours,  and  I  said  clearly  and 
slowly,  as  I  am  speaking  to  you  now,  '  Colonel  Ramsay, 
call  again ; '  and  he  understood  perfectly,  Aunt  Chesilia. 
He  lay  very  still,  with  my  hand  clasped  in  both  of  his, 
pressing  it  to  his  breast,  with  his  eyes  fastened  on  my 
face.  That  was  the  last  thing  he  felt  or  heard  or  saw ; 
for  after  a  little  his  eyes  closed,  and  he  passed  peacefully 
away." 

Miss  Chesilia's  eyes  closed  slowly,  and  she- too  lay  quiet 
and  peaceful,  passing  away  also,  they  thought ;  but  it  was 
not  to  be  so.  A  new  peace  had  come  to  her  heart,  and 
with  it  a  new  life.  She  was  to  live  to  see  years  of  a 
married  happiness  that  she  might  have  known,  to  hear 
the  old  house  echo  with  the  merry  voices  and  innocent 
laughter  of  children  that  might  have  been  her  own ;  and 
she  was  to  find  new  loves  and  new  hopes,  —  for  to  cherish 
an  ideal  which  the  actual  has  no  power  to  blemish,  is  not 
to  be  unhappy. 


MISS  CHESILIA  MCCARTHY.  267 

And  yet,  when  her  time  came,  she  was  not  unready  to 
go.  They  had  surrounded  her  with  affection  and  tender- 
est  care;  but  they  knew  well  that  she  was  ever  looking 
forward  to  that  meeting  with  her  faithful  lover,  when 
they  might  be  together  in  a  land  where  no  question  of 
marriage  and  giving  in  marriage  could  enter  to  perplex 
and  separate  them  as  it  had  on  earth. 


"DIE,   WHICH  I  WONT! 


DIE,  WHICH  I  WON'T! 

&  JHemorg. 


"  E>UT  am  I  going  to  die,  Mother  ?  " 

*-*     "  Why  do  you  ask,  my  darling?     Do  you  feel  as 
if  you  were  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  Mother ;  1  never  died  before.  Father, 
you  tell  me." 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  the  physician ;  "  of  course  you  are 
not  dying.  Here,  take  your  medicine  like  a  good  child, 
and  get  well." 

Jere  turned  away  fretfully.  ^  No,  1  am  not  going  to 
take  any  more;  I  am  going  to  die." 

"  Take  your  medicine  at  once,  my  child,"  said  a  steady 
voice ;  and  the  boy,  opening  his  lips  mechanically,  obeyed. 

Mr.  Barton  followed  the  physician  into  the  adjoining 
room.  "  Is  there  a  chance  ? "  he  asked. 

The  doctor  was  looking  grave  and  annoyed.  "  There 
was,"  he  replied.  "  Who  has  been  talking  in  the  room  ? 

How  has  this  idea  taken  hold  of  him  ? " 

% 

"  No  one  has  suggested  it.  Jere  was  always  a  precocious 
child,  you  know." 

"  Yes ;  but  if  we  are  going  to  have  this  restlessness  and 
fear  to  tight  as  well,  why,  then  —  " 


272  "DIE,   WHICH  I  WON'T!" 

"  There  is  no  hope  ?  " 

"  None.  You  may  find  means  to  soothe  him  ;  if  not, 
—  well,  do  what  you  can.  I  shall  return  shortly,  for  my 
part." 

Jere  looked  down  at  his  father's  hands  as  they  lay  on 
the  pillow  near  him.  They  were  not  so  white  or  so  soft 
or  so  small  as  his  mother's,  and  the  nails  were  not  so  pretty 
and  pink  ;  but  he  liked  to  feel  them  lift  him  about  in  the 
bed,  and  they  refreshed  him  when  they  lay  on  his  forehead. 
He  moved  now  so  that  his  cheek  touched  the  back  of  one 
of  them. 

"  There  's  father  hands  and  mother  hands,  is  n't 
there  ?  "  he  said.  "  Father,  you  '11  tell  me  the  truth  ;  am 
I  going  to  die  ?  " 

Mr.  Barton  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  gath 
ered  his  boy  into  his  arm,  lifting  the  hot,  restless  head 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Jere,  you  like  to  hear  father's  stories,  don't  you  ?  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  one." 

"  I  used  to  like  them  when  I  was  n't  dying ;  1  don't 
know  now." 

"  A  story  of  when  I  was  a  boy." 

Jere  nestled  his  forehead  against  his  father's  throat. 
"  Lift  up  your  head  the  littlest  bit,  Father ;  I  like  the  feel 
of  your  beard." 

Mrs.  Barton  rose  quickly,  and  walked  over  to  the 
window,  looking  out  at  a  landscape  which  she  did  not  see. 

"  When  1  was  a  boy  —  "  began  Mr.  Barton. 

"  Yes,  that 's  the  kind  of  story  that 's  best.  Begin  at 
the  very  beginning,  Father." 

"  When  I  was  a  boy  there  was  a  great  war  going  on ; 
I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  about  that,  though.  My  story 


"  DIE,   WHICH  I  WON'T  !  "  273 

is  of  one  of  its  soldiers ;  and  I  don't  think  he  knew 
much  more  of  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  it  than  you 
would." 

"  You  did  n't  fight,  Father?" 

"  No ;  I  was  very  little  older  than  you  are.  But  one 
of  the  fiercest  of  the  battle-fields  was  near  our  old  home 
stead  ;  and  after  the  fight  was  over  your  grandfather,  with 
all  the  men  left  on  the  farm,  went  out  to  help  the  wounded. 
The  old  country  doctor  went  along,  too,  and  I,  although 
no  one  knew  that  at  the  time. 

"  It  was  a  dark  night.  They  had  to  go  out  with  lanterns ; 
and  so  I  slipped  through  the  door  behind  them,  keeping  in 
the  shadow.  I  knew  very  well  that  I  should  be  sent  home, 
if  they  caught  me ;  and  I  was  wild  to  go.  The  first  soldier 
they  ran  across  was  lying  on  his  face.  One  of  the  men 
turned  him  over,  and  somebody  held  a  lantern  while  the 
doctor  examined  him. 

" '  Dead,'  said  the  doctor,  with  a  nod. 

"  Then  they  all  went  on,  I  creeping  after  them  softly. 
On  my  way  I  had  to  pass  quite  close  by  the  dead  soldier ; 
and  suddenly  I  nearly  jumped  out  of  my  boots,  for  I 
thought  I  heard  a  moan.  I  was  so  frightened  that  my 
heart  stood  as  still  as  I  did ;  I  can  remember  how  it  felt 
now.  I  did  not  know  whether  to  rush  on  and  get  with 
my  father  and  the  lanterns,  or  to  run  back  to  my  mother. 
Then  I  did  neither,  but  walked  over  to  the  soldier's  side, 
my  heart  going  thump,  thump,  thump !  When  I  got  to 
him  there  was  no  doubt  about  it ;  I  heard  another  moan. 
And  this  time  I  was  too  scared  to  run ;  but  I  yelled 
'  Father ! '  as  loud  as  I  could." 

"  Yes,  that 's  just  what  I  would  have  done,"  said  Jere ; 
and  his  father  drew  him  closer  as  he  went  on. 

18 


274  "  DIE,   WHICH  I  WON'T  !  " 

"  My  father  and  the  doctor  came  running  back.  They 
were  frightened,  too,  for  they  knew  my  voice. 

"  '  What 's  all  this  ? '  said  the  doctor ;  and  then  I  told 
him  that  the  man  he  had  said  was  dead  was  not  dead  at 
all,  that  I  had  heard  him  moaning.  The  men  came  up 
with  their  lanterns,  and  the  doctor  made  another  examina 
tion.  The  soldier's  leg  was  broken,  and  there  was  a  big 
hole  in  his  chest. 

" '  He 's  as  good  as  dead,'  said  the' doctor.  '  Here,  Tom 
Barton,  you  scamper  home  ;  there  are  plenty  of  men  on 
the  field  to  save,  and  there  's  no  time  to  lose.' 

"  1  cried  very  easily  in  those  days  if  I  were  angry  or 
troubled ;  and  1  cried  then,  and  begged  my  father  not  to 
desert  my  soldier.  At  last  he  told  me  that  he  would  leave 
one  of  the  men  with  me,  and  I  might  stay  by  the  soldier 
until  he  died. 

" '  He 's  dead  now,  I  believe,'  said  the  doctor,  flashing 
his  lantern  on  the  man's  face. 

"  And  as  he  spoke,  the  man  opened  his  eyes,  and  said, 
quite  distinctly,  through  his  set  teeth,  '  Die,  which  I 
won't ! " 

"The  doctor  burst  out  laughing.  I  thought  it  the 
most  heartless  thing  I  had  ever  known  any  one  do.  He 
knelt  down  again,  however,  opened  the  man's  shirt,  and 
stanched  the  blood  oozing  from  the  hole  in  his  chest. 
The  soldier's  eyes  had  closed,  and  he  was  breathing  pain 
fully,  with  long  rests  between." 

"  Like  I  do  sometimes  ?  "  asked  Jere. 

"  No ;  worse  than  you  ever  do." 

"  Tell  me  how  long  he  did  n't  breathe." 

"No;  I  don't  care  about  your  trying  it  just  now.  Wait 
until  you  get  stronger.  The  doctor  gave  me  some  stimu- 


"  DIE,   WHICH  I   WON'T!"  275 

lant,  which  he  told  me  I  might  give  the  man  from  time  to 
time,  and  then  they  went  off. 

"  I  sat  down  on  the  ground  and  took  the  soldier's  head 
on  my  knee,  every  now  and  then  wetting  his  lips  as  the 
doctor  had  showed  me,  and  dripping  some  of  the  stuff 
between  them." 

The  nurse  came  forward  with  the  medicine,  but  Jere 
turned  from  her  impatiently. 

"  You  wet  my  lips  with  it,  Father ;  and  drip  it  in,  like 
you  did  the  man." 

Mr.  Barton  took  the  cup,  moistening  the  child's  lips 
with  the  contents,  and  pouring  the  rest  slowly  down  his 
throat. 

"  That  was  just  the  way,  Father  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  was  just  the  way." 

"  Then  go  on." 

"  When  my  father  came  back  and  found  the  soldier 
still  breathing,  he  told  me  that  the  house  was  too  full  to 
take  him  in,  but  that  I  might  have  him  carried  to  my  old 
mammy's  cabin  if  I  chose,  and  that  mammy  and  I  might 
see  what  we  could  do.  I  followed  the  stretcher  to  the 
house,  where  my  soldier  was  handed  over  into  the  doctor's 
hands.  The  night  was  already  half  gone,  but  I  could  n't 
sleep  through  the  rest  of  it  for  thinking  of  him. 

"  Early  in  the  morning   I  dressed  myself,  and  went 

down  to  my  father's  study,  where  I  got  a  big  sheet  of 

white  paper,  and  printed  on  it,  in  great  straggling  letters, 

—  1  could  not  print  so  well  as  you  do,  although  1  was 

older,  — '  Die,  which  I  won't  I ' 

"  As  soon  as  my  breakfast  was  over,  I  went  down  to 
mammy's  cabin  with  the  sheet  in  my  hand,  and  pinned  it 
securely  on  the  foot-board  of  my  soldier's  bedstead  with 


276  "DIE,   WHICH  I  WON'T!" 

two  of  my  mother's  big  bonnet-pins.  When  I  turned 
around,  the  soldier's  eyes  were  open,  and  he  lay  staring 
at  me. 

"  I  thought  he  was  too  ill  to  understand,  for  mammy 
said  he  was ;  but  when  the  doctor  came  in  and  bent  over 
him,  my  soldier  was  too  weak  to  lift  his  handx  but  with 
the  slowest  movement  you  ever  saw  he  raised  his  finger 
and  pointed  to  '  Die,  winch  I  won't !  ' 

"  The  doctor  looked  down  at  the  foot-board  and  spelled 
the  words  out ;  then  he  looked  at  me.  '  Well,  you  are  a 
pair  of  you,'  he  said ;  and  he  burst  out  laughing  again. 
I  used  to  think  the  doctor  the  most  heartless  being  that 
ever  lived  in  those  days;  now  1  understand  him,  and  1 
know  how  much  better  it  is  to  laugh  than  to  cry." 

"  Even  when  people  are  dying  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  even  when  people  are  dying,  if  the  laugh  is  the 
right  kind. 

" '  You  ought  to  be  dead  by  rights,'  said  the  doctor ; 
'but  as  you  are  not  — '" 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Father.  Don't  go  on  yet.  I  'd  like 
one." 

"  One  what,  my  boy  ?  " 

"A  '  Die,  which  /won't!'" 

The  figure  at  the  window  moved  suddenly. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  child  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Barton. 

"  1  'd  like  one  pinned  on  the  foot  of  my  bed  like  the 
man  had/' 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  when  Mr.  Barton 
spoke,  his  voice  was  unsteady.  "  Perhaps  Mother  will 
make  one  for  you.  Were  you  listening,  dear  ? " 

Mrs.  Barton  came'  forward.  There  were  deep  circles 
about  her  eyes ;  and  her  lips,  as  they  set  in  a  smile,  were 


"DIE,   WHICH   I   WON'T!"  277 

quivering.    "Yes,  I  will  make  it,"  she  said ;  and  she  went 
into  the  next  room. 

Jere  tossed  restlessly  on  his  father's  shoulder.   "  Mother 's 
so  long,"  he  complained. 

But  at  last  she  came.  She  had  a  sheet  of  white  paper 
in  her  hand ;  and  on  it,  in  great  black  letters,  were  the 
words,  "  Die,  winch  I  won't!" 

Jere  looked  at  it  contentedly.  "  That 's  right,  is  n't  it, 
Father  ?  What  funny  spotty  paper  you  used,  Mother ; 
but  it 's  printed  beautifully.  Now  pin  it  up  for  me  just 
where  he  had  it;  tell  them  where,  Father." 

"  Just  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  a  little  to  the  right." 

The  nurse  pinned  up  the  paper,  and  Jere  read  it  slowly. 
" '  Die,  which  I  won't ! ' " 

Mrs.  Barton,  with  a  catch  in  her  breath  and  a  quick 
movement,  bent  forward.  Her  husband  stretched  out  his 
arm  and  drew  her  to  him,  whispering  in  her  ear. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Jere.    "  Mother,  you  must  n't  interrupt." 

Mrs.  Barton  went  back  to  the  window,  and  the  story 
went  on. 

"  My  mother  was  very  good  to  me ;  she  used  to  excuse 
me  from  my  lessons,  and  I  spent  long  hours  sitting  by  my 
soldier's  bedside.  '  You  may  learn  your  lesson  there  to 
day,'  she  would  say ;  but  as  she  never  gave  me  any  book 
to  take  with  me,  I  used  to  wonder  what  she  meant.  Now 
I  understand  that  too.  I  had  a  kind  of  storehouse  in  my 
mind,  where  I  kept  things  I  did  n't  understand,  and  won 
dered  over  them." 

"  You  understand  everything  now,  Father,  don't  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Barton  looked  down  at  the  flushed  face  and  listened 
to  the  quick  breaths.  His  gray  eyes,  piercing  and  watch 
ful,  became  full  of  unspeakable  tenderness. 


278  '    "DIE,   WHICH  I  WON'T!" 

"No,  not  everything;  there  are  some  things  which  I 
shall  never  understand.  I  keep  making  additions  to  my 
storehouse." 

Jere's  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  paper  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  then  on  his  own  hand ;  he  was  curling  up  the 
small  fingers,  save  one  which  pointed  to  the  foot-board. 

There  was  a  sobbing  breath  from  the  window,  and  the 
mother,  now  facing  the  room,  hurried  forward  with 
an  eager  gesture.  At  a  look  from  her  husband,  her  arms 
fell,  and  she  stood  motionless,  watching. 

Mr.  Barton's  voice  went  on  steadily.  "  At  first  I  was 
sent  from  the  room  whenever  the  wounds  were  dressed ; 
but  after  a  little  the  doctor  let  me  come  in  and  hold  things 
for  him.  Once  when  1  was  standing  by  the  bedside,  1 
saw  my  soldier's  hand  groping  on  the  counterpane,  and 
1  put  mine  into  it.  After  that  I  let  mammy  hold  the 
things,  while  -I  held  my  soldier's  hand  instead ;  he  would 
turn  and  look  for  it,  if  I  were  not  quite  ready.  Every 
morning  when  I  came  in,  I  would  point  to  the  paper,  and 
the  soldier's  finger  would  point  also." 

"  Like  mine  does  ?    See,  Father !  " 

"  Yes,  just  that  way.  It  was  a  long  time  before  he 
could  speak,  and  longer  before  he  could  move  hand  or 
foot. 

'"All  depends  upon  being  very  careful,'  the  doctor 
said.  He  used  to  give  me  his  instructions,  and  I  watched 
my  soldier  to  see  that  he  did  nothing  which  he  was  told 
not  to  do.  I  was  very  strict  with  him. 

" '  I  believe  the  man  is  actually  going  to  get  well,'  said 
the  doctor,  at  last. 

"  And  he  did ;  but  it  was  very  slow.  At  first  he  was 
only  allowed  to  sit  up  in  bed  for  five  minutes  at  a  time ; 


"DIE,   WHICH  I  WON'T!"  279 

I  used  to  hold  the  watch.  Then  he  got  from  the  bed  to  a 
chair.  After  that  there  was  no  keeping  him  in  the  cabin  ; 
he  would  walk  out  with  a  stick  in  one  hand,  and  the  other 
hand  resting  on  my  shoulder.  I  suppose  there  was  no 
prouder  boy  in  the  county  than  I  when  I  walked  my 
soldier  as  far  as  the  house,  and  showed  him  to  my  father 
and  mother." 

"All  well,  Father?" 

"  Yes,  well  and  strong." 

Jere's  eyes  turned  again  to  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
"  What  did  he  do  with  his  paper  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yours  ?  " 

"  1  would  like  to  do  whatever  he  did." 

"  The  first  day  my  soldier  went  out  of  that  cabin-door 
we  unpinned  it,  and  he  folded  it  up  carefully,  and  put  it 
in  an  inside  pocket.  He  was  going  to  take  it  to  Lucy, 
he  said." 

"Who  is  L— Lucy?" 

Mr.  Barton  looked  down,  his  face  changing  suddenly. 
"  Lucy  is  his  wife  now,"  he  said  slowly  ;  "  she  was  only 
his  sweetheart  then.  She  was  waiting  for  him  far  away 
in  the  mountains.  He  told  me  all  about  her ;  she  had  no 
father  or  mother,  and  her  aunt  was  not  very  good  to  her. 
My  soldier  was  the  only  thing  Lucy  had  on  earth ;  he  had 
promised  that  he  would  come  back." 

The  nurse  advanced  again  with  the  medicine  in  her 
hand.  Mr.  Barton  motioned  her  away.  His  voice  went 
on  monotonously  ;  what  he  was  saying  he  did  not  himself 
know. 

Jere's  head  lay  heavily  on  his  shoulder,  his  eyelashes 
rising  and  drooping  slowly.  Once  his  eyes  fastened  on 
the  paper,  and  his  lips  moved. 


280  "  DIE,   WHICH  I  WON'T  !  " 

Mrs.  Barton,  standing  behind  her  husband  with  clasped 
hands,  bent  forward  breathlessly. 

"'Die,  which  I  won't!'1'  murmured  the  childish 
voice ;  and  the  eyelids  closed.  The  breath  came  softly 
and  regularly  through  the  parted  lips. 

Mr.  Barton's  voice  faltered,  and  broke.  His  supporting 
arms  and  body  remained  motionless;  but  he  raised  his 
head  until  his  eyes  met  those  of  his  wife,  and  the  over 
flowing  thankfulness  in  them  answered  the  question  in 
hers. 

Mrs.  Barton  covered  her  face  with  her  hands ;  and  the 
nurse,  stepping  forward,  drew  her  gently  away,  her  own 
eyes  brimming  over  with  tears. 

"It  is  natural  sleep,"  she  whispered ;  "  the  crisis  will 
pass." 


THE  END. 


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PS 

1999 

H?65p 


